Murder in Edwardian Suburbia
by cloogle
Summary: AU story. "I am like every other woman; it is you that is loose. To unwind is to allow a trap to form; a noose with which one might hang one's self. You kid yourself that such freedoms exist."
1. The Dawn of Change

**Title:** Murder in Edwardian Suburbia  
**Disclaimer:** Murder in Suburbia and its characters are the property of ITV. No infringement intended.  
**Note:** AU. (You can take the girl out of the twenty-first century...) What if Kate and Emma had been born in Victorian times? What if they were companions living together in Kate's family home? What if the scullery girl was murdered and they decided to take investigative matters into their own hands? Not a time-travel fic.  
**Graphic: **On profile page

* * *

Millie sat huddled on the eroded stone step set at the rear entrance to the kitchens. Making use of the gas lamp's dim but glowing light, she cast one shoe aside to grasp another large boot, which she clamped tightly between her skinny knees, feverishly working the blacking and spit deep into the soft leather. Her body shook with a momentary shiver, more due to the involuntary twitches that tiredness provoked, than the icy winds that cut at her cheeks like fine hair whips. Leaning back against the door frame, she looked at the star-speckled sky wistfully and found herself stirred by the sight.

Not long roused, her torso abruptly slumped with a large sigh as she rubbed at her face, leaving in her palm's wake several smears of polish along her pale, pinched nose. Catching sight of a shadowed figure approaching across the lawns, she hastily gathered into her arms the bundle of shoes, tins of cream and sodden cloths. As she rose, a single lace fell silently behind her, which, to her detriment, she failed to note. Rattling and creaking, like a clumsy household goods pedlar, her knees bowed to the sides as she waddled, struggling to bear the weight. "All done, Mr Clement. Jus' need t'lace up," she called with barely a glance over her shoulder, habitual servile indifference countering any natural instinct for due wariness.

"Millie?" came a soft, low, unhurried voice, the owner of which was now standing directly behind her. The stray lace was being twisted in figure eights around grey, leather-gloved fingers that creaked as the wearer flexed their hands. With a silent patience, the person watched as Millie tidied away, their breathing so steady as to be almost audibly absent.

"O'course, it's me," she chuckled, never once thinking to turn from her duties to confirm present company. "What you goin' -" A swift tightness scored across her throat and stopped her gaily spoken words. The makeshift garrotte cut with a hot, searing pain. Grappling with futility, Millie's slim nails dragged across her strained neck, leaving scores of pink, stinging flesh. Kicking frantically, her feet no longer touched the ground; dainty, worn shoes instead tapped silently at the air, treading imaginary waters. Her small, twisting frame was drawn hard against the chest of her assailant, suspended above the floor, hung by a boot lace noose.

Her legs ceased their aimless pace as her breathing ebbed to a hiss. Millie's lifeless form fell to the floor: a ghastly crumpled heap; a discarded cloth doll, limbs folded underneath her torso unnaturally, and eyes fixed in a sewn-on stare.

* * *

Emma slouched down into her usual armchair, preferring plump cushions wedged around her hips to produce the most comfortable arrangement. Turning her wine glass stem between her fingers and thumb, she watched through heavy-lidded eyes and mildly occluded vision as her companion, Kate, lunged for the ribbon-wrapped chocolate box positioned on the small walnut table between them. Unnoticed, a smile passed over Emma's lips as she observed Kate bite a truffle indelicately in half.

Lydia, Kate's mother, rose from her seat and began fussing with the line of her skirt. "Chennells?" she snapped, without granting the girl a look.

"Yes ma'am?" replied the maid, Ellen, with an automatic dip of her knees.

"The fire: stoke it, please. I would rather hear that roar than awful howling weather," Lydia requested curtly, twisting the silver lid from her glass pill pot with a noise that set Kate's teeth on edge. Ellen tended to her duties, and was then bid to leave with an ungrateful and sharp-toned: "Thank you." Lydia returned to her place by the window and quietly muttered to herself about the impending storm.

Emma watched Ellen leave as she continued to sip her wine. Her gaze fell lazily to the reflections caused by the fire's dancing flames that flashed across the detailed fretwork of the mantel. She raised her glass to watch the changing light through the crystal and began to feel satisfactorily drowsy.

Kate devoured another truffle, using her free hand to hold the novel she was consumed by. She splayed her cocoa-dusted fingers and smiled, eyes sparkling, upon reaching a particularly exciting passage. Rubbing her hands clean with a handkerchief, she placed a ribbon between the pages and snapped the book shut before striding towards the fireplace to smooth a fingertip across the marble. Smiling wistfully at the fire, she dreamt of what might be to come in the next chapter. After some time, Lydia made a huffing exit from the room, nodding a goodnight to the girls as she went. Now alone, Kate looked over to Emma and grinned widely.

"Rather happy, aren't you?" said Emma rhetorically, smiling back at Kate, whose own grin had spread to reveal her teeth, giving her an impish look.

"Just a thrilling part of the story. It's perfect." She gestured wildly with her hands as she spoke about her story of medieval times; a fairly childish work considering Kate's considerable intellect and upbringing.

_'So animated. She would make a brilliant public speaker,'_ thought Emma as she imagined Kate as a renegade atop a park bench: fists high in the air, speaking out to the masses about injustice and rights. "Shame, though," she said aloud, twisting a lock of her blonde hair around a crooked finger.

"What is?"

"That white knights don't exist nowadays," said Emma musingly, biting at the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from gigging at Kate's previous enthusiasm for a trashy, romantic novel.

"Yes," Kate replied before sucking at her bottom lip. "However," she blurted, "if such a breed of men had survived, they would no doubt be as entirely callous, ruthless -"

"Dull." Emma smiled wryly.

"- as the men of Middleford." Sighing, Kate collapsed into the chair her mother had previously vacated, ensconced herself in a shawl and glared through the window. Wind pulled hard at the panes of glass making them rattle in their frames. While no expense had been spared on the contents of Ardmoore Grange, the house itself had been the sacrifice and, despite its beauty, the faults shone through. It is for that selfsame reason that the house had been without a butler for a number of years; the Ashursts' much advertised, but bogus attempts to find a befitting staff member were simply carried out to avoid abasement.

"You will always have the affections of Peter Mulgrave," Emma whispered, hiding behind her glass as she took a large swig to stifle a laugh.

Kate looked over and scowled. "Petulant perfumier Peter? Thank you for that perfect pearl of perspicacity. Not a chance."

"Well he's certainly _persistent_ perfumier Peter; you've to give him that." She looked up, a coltish, teasing look in her eyes.

Kate sneered and rose for another chocolate. "I trust that you _are_ being sarcastic. Had you _genuinely_ been acting as his proponent, I should have to disown you as my confidante instantly." Before she reached the table, they heard a door slam loudly and subsequent sounds of voices rising from the direction of the hallway. Feeling curious, they bounded, in a fairly unladylike manner, towards the foot of the stairs and were greeted by chaos. Gerald Clement, the footman, held Ellen in his arms as she sobbed noisily into his waistcoat. Her tears soaked the fabric to such an extent that he felt the need to retrieve his fobwatch from the pocket before allowing her to continue dampening his chest. Patricia Whattle, the housemaid, talked heatedly with Kate's step-father, while Kate's mother stood rigidly beside her husband, wringing her hands.

The cook flew past.

"Mrs Beechley, what _has_ happened?" asked Kate, reaching out to stop her.

"Oh, Miss Kate, Miss Emma, never did I see such a thing," she yelped quietly, her native Suffolk accent affecting her speech more than usual. "Who could do such a thing to poor Millie?" she called back to them as she sped off again, crying and tearing at her apron with her hands.

* * *

Emma knocked on the adjoining door and entered Kate's room wearing her nightdress, dressing gown and slippers. Firmly pressing the finger plate, she forced the heavy door to a close. "I'll finish that." She took the fine ivory-handled brush from the maid's trembling hand.

"Are you sure, Miss?" asked Ellen hesitantly, her face pale and clammy, her eyes distant and distracted.

"Quite sure. No one would ask you to complete your duties tonight." Emma flashed a look at Kate, who raised her eyebrow, then rolled her eyes. "You've been through enough," Emma continued. "Go. You've had a horrible, horrible fright. I need to speak to Miss Ashurst anyway." Ushering Ellen away, she made a flapping action with her hands, as if she were shooing a pigeon.

"Thank you." Ellen turned to Kate who was sitting at her dressing table in a ruffled peignoir. "Anything else, Miss?"

"That will be all," Kate responded tersely.

Emma and Kate were left alone for the second time of the evening. Tucking the hairbrush under one arm, Emma began to pull out the various clips and pins that held Kate's dark-brown curls and tresses in place. Kate spoke first: "I saw Doctor Vandrill as he left. He's going to inform the police directly."

"I don't mean to belittle Millie's death, but isn't this all very exciting? I mean." Emma's teeth nipped at her bottom lip. "A murder investigation." She almost bounced with joy.

Kate raised a finger in the air. "_If_ there is a investigation at all. The culprit may have been apprehended or simply turned themselves in," she explained pragmatically.

Emma roughly took the brush to Kate's hair. "Do you think, perhaps, she had a lover?" she asked, giddiness subsiding.

"The girl? I didn't know much of anything about her."

"A lovers' quarrel turned to violence," Emma surmised. "It's all very romantic."

Kate turned to look up, catching Emma off guard so she almost lost the brush from her hand. "Hardly."

"Well, it's intriguing anyway. You have to give me that." Emma forced Kate by the shoulders, swivelling her on her seat so that Kate faced the mirror again and Emma carried on brushing her hair, which had begun to shine.

"I hope for _her_ sake that she did die for love and not thievery or something equally despicable," Kate mused, looking at the backs of her hands. "Or perhaps not." She frowned deeply.

"Do you think that the murderer is still on the grounds?" Emma wandered to the window, cupping her hands around her eyes in an attempt to better see the garden.

"Don't. That's a horrid thought." Kate joined her and they stood side by side in silence for some time.

"Oh, what was that?" said Emma, pressing a finger firmly on the glass, excitedly.

"It's a fox, you goose." Kate placed a hand either side of Emma's waist and pulled her away from the window. "Come. You'll catch a chill and no doubt you'll be wanting to be fresh for the police visit?"

"I will. Goodnight Kate." Emma pulled her shawl further round her shoulders, then leaned in to place a brief kiss on Kate's flushed cheek. She left by the adjoining door to her room and closed it behind her. Kate, ignoring her own good advice, returned to the window to continue her night vigil for a little longer. Out of sight from Kate, Emma went to her own window to stand a while looking for lurking figures herself.

* * *

All members of the household slept fitfully that night, the undeniable crackle of tension in the air caused the hours to drag and, come dawn, the inhabitants of Ardmoore Grange were beyond fretful.

Upon hearing the bell, Lydia leapt uncharacteristically to her maid's side; swiftly, they marched down the hallway towards the front entrance.

Two elongated shadows, one shorter and plumper than the other, fell over the intricately tiled floor and imposed another level of foreboding upon the house. As the door swung wide, the taller and more traditionally handsome of the two men spoke first. "Good day, Mrs Ashurst. I am Detective Inspector Sullivan of Middleford Police. This -" he indicated his colleague "- is Detective Sergeant Gallimore. We request to interview your staff first, if you would kindly allow us entrance," said the purse-lipped, sharp-eyed detective, gesturing towards the footman and housemaid, who proceeded to take his hat, coat and gloves.

"As you wish, Inspector Sullivan," replied Mrs Ashurst accommodatingly, seeking only to address the superior of the two men. "Such a bad business." Sullivan entered the majestic hallway and was closely followed by Gallimore, who nodded briefly at the lady of the house. "For the sake of the family and for the reputation of the house," she continued, "I do hope the matter will be cleared swiftly."

"Matter? Let's have a little more concern for the dead, madam. Investigation," he corrected, his voice carrying a note of deep concern. "I promise you, you have nothing to worry about."

"Oh, well, good." She clamped her hand to her collared throat and smiled.

"Indeed. Should the cause of your servant girl's death mar the opinion of your good family in the eyes of the local societies, it shan't hinder my work whatsoever," Sullivan responded coolly, a devilish twitch of a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.

* * *

Kate sat perched on a window seat set into one of the south-facing bay windows. She sipped her morning coffee and looked out on the foggy but bright morning. Emma waltzed into the room and began lifting up dish lids to see what was left for breakfast, never the one for rising early.

"Good morning," Kate said quietly, silently irked by the clanking of porcelain and metal.

"G'orning." Emma's voice was muffled by the piece of toast she had just wedged between her teeth.

"The police are here."

"That was fast of them." Collecting a plate of scrambled eggs, she sat at the table closest to Kate.

"Mother was talking to a detective. He is down with the staff, carrying out interviews." Kate nodded towards the door.

"Anyone would think the King had arrived with the fuss your mother caused. I do hope he interviews me; this is the most interesting thing that's happened in years." She checked her reflection on the flat of a large butter knife.

"Emma!" Kate said, mildly shocked. "If you will continue making such remarks, then -"

"Well, you know what I mean." A large cloud passed over the dawn-breaking sky, and the tone of light in the room dulled. "Would you like more coffee?" asked Emma as she rose for a cup of hot chocolate, leaning her hip against the credenza as she poured.

Kate blinked as the sunlight returned, streaming brightly through the window. "Please."

"Now, tell me." Emma nudged a space beside Kate and sat down. "What does this detective look like?"

Kate took a deep breath. Earlier in the day, she had clung to the landing banisters and, like a child, peeped through the spindles to watch the grand entrance of the police detectives. She considered Sullivan to be particularly handsome. "I only heard them speaking, really," she said, blurring over the truth.

"Well, did he _sound_ eligible?" A twinkle appeared in Emma's eyes.

Kate rose, rubbing away the effects of an assumed shiver from her neck. She strode away, the proximity a little too close for her liking. "He sounded somewhat... laconic. It was hard to tell his manner; they didn't talk for any great length of time before he strode in and left my mother in the doorway."

"He's brave. I like him already." Emma smirked. "In her world, that's tantamount to ostracism. She'll hate him; it'll be _brilliant_."


	2. That Which Cannot Be Unseen

Detective Inspector Sullivan briskly rose to his feet as Kate approached the round marquetry table. They nodded courteously towards one another and sat down simultaneously on opposite chairs.

"Just a formality, you understand, Miss Ashurst." Sullivan ran his fingertips down the buttons of his waistcoat.

"Of course. Completely understandable," Kate replied, placing her hands neatly on her lap in readiness for the impending interrogation.

His charming smile became a serious pout. "Were you familiar with the deceased?"

"Familiar?" Kate frowned, not quite understanding why the question had been asked. "I knew her by position and name; little more."

He nodded. "Have you, in recent days, seen any unsavoury or... simply unknown persons in or around the grounds?"

"I do not recall any, no." Kate shook her head and glanced furtively to the side. Across the room, Emma was being interviewed by Detective Sergeant Gallimore.

* * *

"And you say you saw absolutely nothing?" Gallimore asked, eyes fixed on his notepaper, clearly disinterested in her answer.

"That's right. We were having post-dinner drinks upstairs," Emma replied, leaning over the card table in an attempt to read Gallimore's notes upside-down. "As... per... usual," she muttered distractedly as she spied familiar words through her squinting eyes.

"What about the staff? Good-natured, are they?" He flipped over the covering flap of his book to obscure her view.

"What a question, Sergeant!" Emma almost scoffed. "I don't believe any of them to be murderers. Why?" She narrowed her eyes, wondering about his suspicions. "Do you suppose them to be?"

Gallimore's thick moustache appeared to tussle for space on his upper lip as he considered his reply. "Can't always tell straight off, Miss. For all we know, it might've even been yourself."

"Oh! It wasn't me, but _hurrah_ for not being excluded from the list of candidates." Emma looked positively thrilled, her deep-brown eyes wide and gleaming. "Am I to stand in line and be misidentified, only for the real perpetrator to go free? Then, in a rush of gallantry and drama, be saved at the very last minute from the hangman's noose?" she asked with a strong injection of drama.

Gallimore grimaced and sarcastically spouted: "You never know, Miss, you might get lucky."

* * *

Emma flitted in and out of Kate's room, wearing only her underclothes. One by one, she held up a variety of dresses for advice and approval.

"This one?" Emma asked, waltzing back in, one arm clamping a rather gaudy dress across her waist, while the other clutched the upper section to her chest.

Kate needed only a glimpse of the fabric to form her reply. "Discussed before," she dismissed abruptly. Emma looked back at her expectantly. Kate's shoulders sank. "Wear black and they'll take you for a widow, wear white and they'll take you for a child; wear red -" Kate waved her hand at the dress "- and they'll take you for a trollop. It is quite, quite simple."

Emma made a face of discontentment at Kate and then looked down at her pretty, mulberry-coloured frock. "I know you have rules for evening wear, but I don't."

Kate stood up from her writing bureau and grasped Emma by the arm to push her back through the door, which connected their rooms. She tore through the wardrobe until she discovered a slate blue evening dress with floral embroidery outlining the décolleté neckline. "This one is much more to my favour."

Emma's response was to look disgruntled, shoulders slumped. "It's not particularly..."

"Particularly what?" Kate crossed her arms.

"Well I _was_ hoping to wear something a little..." She blew her cheeks out and searched for the right words.

"More alluring? Oh yes, I see... you wish to become another in the long line of forgotten paramours. Well don't look to me if your loose morals land you in trouble. I shan't be tainted."

"I never said anything about loose morals... I..." Emma looked down and sneered slightly. "Fine. I'll wear the blasted dress."

* * *

"It is quite clear that the Paris and London fashions haven't _quite_ reached this side of suburbia. What sort of woman wears one of those these days?" Kate whispered into Emma's ear, nodding in the direction of a huddle of women, one of whom was sporting a grey-white dress complete with an overly large dark bustle of feathers at the rear. "Honestly, I ask you," she smirked.

"She looks like she has a dead ostrich strapped at the waist," Emma muttered through a giggle. "If she turns, we might spot the head and neck. Perhaps she prises open the beak to reveal a coin purse."

"How she thought she could carry that off, I'll never know. Mind, she _does_ have the complexion of a plucked chicken and a sashay likened to that of a duck, so perhaps there was an instinctual, ornithological draw..." Kate was about to continue her comedic scrutiny of the guests, when her eyes widened and face dropped. She had recognised a familiar, and unwelcome, face. "Oh no. It's Peter. Quickly." Kate bobbed behind Emma, yanking her by the blue sash around her waist, joggling her into a position of a shield and barrier. "Hide me," she whispered through gritted teeth.

Peter Mulgrave caught sight of the disappearing Kate and approached, dusting down his coat and straightening the knot of his silk tie. "Good evening, Miss Scribbins," he simpered, bowing his head as he clacked his heels together.

"Mr Musgrave." Emma, almost unable to contain herself, bobbed a curtsy whilst trying not to laugh. She was turning pink with the sheer effort.

"Good evening, Miss Ashurst." He peered around Emma's side and towards Kate who was sidling towards a heavy curtain.

Kate turned and smiled reluctantly. With suppressed anger, she jabbed Emma in the side and caused her companion to release a pent up guffaw. It was indelicately covered with a cough and invited a few unwanted raised eyebrows from the other guests. "Mr Musgrave," Kate said tight-lipped.

"Peter, please, Kate."

"Very well. Peter."

"I trust the year treated you well?" he asked.

"Much as the last," said Kate stoically.

"Oh, well, I predict this one to be a _very_ promising one." He pulled himself up onto his toes and clutched his boney hands behind his back, a look of glee etched on his pudgy face.

Kate attempted to turn her grimace into a smile, which was resultantly ghoulish.

* * *

Emma collapsed into her favoured armchair and kicked her sore feet into the air, eventually landing them on a matching footstool. She gave a sigh of relief. "Pulchritude - now there is a word that should _not_ mean beautiful; it sounds completely wrong. It should mean vile or loathsome." Her nose wrinkled with disdain. "It should refer to boils or pustules," she semi-slurred, four drinks away from being savagely blotto.

Kate seemed less inclined to sit and preferred to pace fretfully around the room. "Nevertheless, it was still a compliment, and paid to you with good intent," she said, waving a finger reproachfully.

"I know, but of all the words. Gah. It made him sound so pompous," Emma said, distractedly pulling off her tight shoes and wincing. She eyed the decanter thirstily.

"You're just holding it against the man because he was cocksure." Kate poured two small, sweet sherries.

"Perhaps." Emma turned, placed her hand under her chin and gazed at Kate, eyes heavy-lidded and softly-glazed.

"You really shouldn't make eyes at gentlemen you carry no favour for." Kate's jaw tightened. "Honestly," she said, sounding exasperated and sliding Emma's drink towards her with a thrust of her arm. "You and your veritable catalogue of suitor disasters. I can barely stand to watch you."

Emma sighed deeply before raising her hands and letting them fall on her face. "Oh, Kate. What are we doing?"

"Tell me, what _is_ it you think that we _are_ doing?" Kate threw back her drink.

"Rejecting all these men based on foibles or colour of moustache or... "

"Use of the word pulchritudinous?" She shook her head almost sorrowfully.

"Hm." Emma sat up and decisively placed her hands on her knees, a pout on her wine-reddened lips. "I'm going to marry Thomas as soon as he gets back from his tour of duty."

"You may not!" Kate protested, finally sitting down in an adjacent chair.

"Why?"

"I simply won't permit it," insisted Kate with a flutter of her eyelashes.

"I am my own woman."

"He might not wish to marry you." Kate grimaced.

"He said he would." Emma nodded keenly.

"When?"

"Five years ago, perhaps four."

"Pah. You were thirteen years of age... he was fourteen. Hardly makes for an engagement. Besides, I honestly won't let you. It would just be wrong for you to marry my brother. Utterly, utterly wrong." Kate noted that Emma's expression of joy hadn't changed, and so she increased the intensity of her own glare. "_Utterly_."

"I may have no choice." Emma pouted, crossing her arms and slouching back into her chair. "What about that tall detective Sulli-whatsit? He was rather pleasing to the eye. Charming and brooding. Perhaps I should make my inquisitive skills and my head for intrigue available to him."

"I doubt a busy body such as yourself would be attractive to him." Kate pursed her lips, her frame tensing even more. "Why marry at all? You might become a woman of profession."

"What could _I_ do?" Emma wrinkled her nose. "Seamstress?" She received a cold stare from Kate, who then shook her head. "All right, not that. Anything... an author?" Kate's expression remained negative. "Well at least _you_ could become a governess to a few royal offspring. What place could I take in the workforce?" Her shoulders sank.

Kate mused on it, several times thinking of something and letting her mouth form the shape of the word. But a counter for each suggestion formed too easily in her mind.

Emma raised her arms in a gesture of futility. "That's it... I'll have to marry a man of great wealth." Kate stared at her once again, frowning. "No?..." She waited for a response from Kate; none came. "Marry well-off?... Marry mildly-well off?... Marry penniless?"

"Should finding a man require any effort on your part, you shall be forced to resign yourself to spinsterhood. If you were Sleeping Beauty, no doubt the spinning wheel would go untouched, your finger unpricked and the story null and void. Hence, you shall instead have to see how far your pulchritudinous figure will get you." Kate smirked and they giggled together. She placed her hand on Emma's knee before blushing and shying away. Out of sight, she used her knuckle to push away a tear of laughter from her cheek.

"In all seriousness." Emma leant over the arm of the chair to grab hold of Kate's hand and hopefully said: "When you are married, may I live with you? I could still be your companion, couldn't I?" A deep concern showed on her face.

With honesty and sincerity, Kate swallowed and replied. "Emma." She looked down and back up again. The words which fell out of her mouth so easily were quite different to those on the tip of her tongue. "With your beauty and kind-nature, I am _certain_ you will be married far in advance of me."

It wasn't the answer which Emma had wanted or expected. "If you'd listened to your mother, you'd've married grisly Michael Philpot three years ago and have four plump, red-headed babies clutched to your waist."

Kate snorted. "Not even _she_ considered that gargoyle of a man to be good breeding stock. It was a failed match from the outset." She slipped her hand from Emma's and rose to look at an already much observed painting. "Regardless, I don't believe I'd be a good mother."

"Don't be ridiculous. Your children would no doubt be supremely intelligent and wonderfully polite." Emma sat up in her seat, pretending to behave like a good child.

"But would they be happy? I don't _believe_ I have the proper capacity to love," she admitted with perfect candour.

"Love is a natural instinct."

"I know one woman for whom it is _definitely_ not a natural instinct."

"We're not all our mothers, Kate."

"And we do not all know how to love." Kate rose and left Emma alone. Slowly, she closed the door behind her.

"Goodnight to you too." Emma derided Kate in her absence, sighing deeply. After consuming a full decanter of claret, she fell into a deep sleep, to be later carried to bed by two of the staff.

* * *

Come morning and a hearty breakfast, Emma, unable to keep her curiosity at bay, picked her way up to the attic where a few of the staff kept their rooms.

"Oh, oh, Miss." Ellen rushed about her room, tidying things into a pile and pulling clothes from the washing line, which hung from wall to wall. "I wasn't expectin'." She winced.

"It's fine, honestly. Please don't worry. You're free keep your room any way you wish. I do." Emma laughed. "In fact, I wish I could prevent the staff from tidying everything away for me," she joked unsurely.

Ellen smiled nervously, touched her hand to her hot head and sat down on the edge of her bed. "How may I help you, Miss?" She shot Emma a quizzical look.

Emma pinched the washing line between her thumb and forefinger and watched a single pegged stocking at the other end bob up and down. "I... just wanted to see how all the staff were... after the death. Are you coping well?"

"Needs must, Miss. Work don't stop."

Emma took a look around the plainly-decorated little room. "Did Millie sleep up here?"

"Mil? No. She had a truckle in the kitchens."

"Oh," Emma said, flinching with surprise, not being aware of any of their own staff sleeping in such cold, uncomfortable conditions. "I didn't realise." It irked her. "Were you friends with Millie?"

"We got on all right. I dare say I don't half miss her. I hope they hang whoever it was what done her in."

"Ellen, I need you to do something for me."

"Yes, Miss, 'course."

"Tell me everything you told the police." Emma drew out a pocket book and pencil and looked down at Ellen.

"I don't..." Ellen wrung her hands. "They said I wasn't -"

"I'll have your mistress grant you a day off," Emma bargained. "Please?" She remained in her hopeful posture for some time before sinking down to sit beside Ellen, slightly dejected but still with a slight smile. "Ah well, can't say I didn't try." Emma nudged the perturbed girl in the ribs. "Have the day anyway. I insist. If a friend of mine died..." Emma thought too long on this and her face took on an utterly dejected look. "I'd be beside myself."

"Well," began Ellen. "'S'pose it wouldn't do no harm to tell you what she was like and who she was, now would it?"

Emma cracked a small smile. "No harm at all."

* * *

Kate ran swiftly up the staircase and down the corridor to her room, with fistfuls of skirt tightly bound in each hand. Forcefully pushing the door to her bedroom shut, she fell against it, and squeezed shut her eyes to stem the bitter tears that streaked their way down her blazing cheeks. She ground the heel of her shoe into the floorboard, frustration making her heart tighten as if caught in an ever twisting metal spring. Biting her lip, she composed herself and paced over to the small casement window.

The sound of heavy rain rang out against the cast iron guttering. Placing a hand to the cold glass, Kate watched the water as it slid down the other side, distorting her faint reflection. Pulling sharply at the lever to release the window, she forced it open to allow the rushing sound to enter the room unmuffled. "_Idiocy_," she hissed, referring to no one but herself. She considered her situation. An opportunity had been granted to her: a new beginning, and in a distant country no less. But there was one logic-defying reason why Kate did not wish to leave Middleford with her parents.

The hollow noise of a book being tossed onto a table made Kate look up to the slightly ajar door which led to the adjoining bedroom. She moved closer to observe, but remained unseen. Emma was there and dressed only in her underthings and corset, her hair caught up untidily with strands hanging loose enough to lightly brush her neck. Kate's gaze focused on her naked shoulders and the graceful curve of Emma's smooth jaw. She let thoughts of a particular closeness invade her mind's eye. Sensation, like warm water flooding into cold, cascaded through her body causing her cheeks and, under the tight security of her blouse, neck to pinken. She became guiltily enraptured, sinking back against the wall, eyes glossy and breath hot, arms drawn about her own waist pressing firmly at her sides. Reduced to a toy with an unwound mechanical heart, she rested limp and mute.

A sudden gust of wind caused the window to crack shut with a loud slam, bringing with it Kate's self-awareness. She tautened primly like a marionette tugged by its crowning string: once again the perfect model of a well-brought up lady.

Emma turned and noticed for the first time that she was not quite alone. "Sneaky," she commented, a glint in her eye as usual, peering back through the doorway.

"Unintentional," Kate replied curtly, pressing the back of her cool hand to her still warm cheek as she approached the dressing table, which she proceeded to lean against whilst looking down at her hands clasped tightly on her lap. "You've become quite the woman, Emma," she admitted without forethought.

"Had you only just noticed?" Emma laughed cockily, hands on hips.

"I hadn't cared to... before."

Emma shook her head, confused. "Before what?"

Looking up, Kate uttered: "Before you became one." Much to her annoyance, Emma simply laughed and batted her gently about the arm.


	3. A Change of Scene

Two days had passed in which Kate had completely failed to enlighten Emma on the matters of travel and separation that had caused her so much anxiety since their inception by her father. Kate's fingers danced across the piano keys, which she depressed with much more rigor than absolutely necessary, having set her mind completely on the music in an attempt to distract her from the decision at hand.

Each thud of the pedals made Emma's heart jolt as the action reverberated through the duet piano seat. Eyes wandering, it came to her notice how the lawn cloth of Kate's shirtwaist pulled and tightened with each move, restrained by the pinched-in waistband. She became lost in idle thought, colour deepening in her already blushed cheeks as she watched the low slung magnifying glass necklace swing back and forth against Kate's taut abdomen. The hypnotic vision caused a pleasant tickling sensation at the back of Emma's mind, and her eyelashes fluttered.

Kate coughed in order to catch Emma's attention, motioning her eyes towards the sheet music, calling for another pair of hands to turn. Another two pages of music passed without conversation. Emma was surprised when at last Kate's eyes flickered towards her, and the silence was broken.

"You look like you're in another world," said Kate with an unexpected gentleness, still playing the notes with a look of fierce concentration.

"We've Rachmaninov; maybe that would suit your mood better. Get up and I'll open the seat," Emma said sharply, standing up and accidentally knocking Kate's hands from the keys.

"Be truthful." Kate's line of sight slid up Emma's frame to her frowning face. "Are you quite all right?" She calmly clasped her hands on her lap, thumbs rolling over each other with restrained agitation.

Emma sighed as she sank to a kneeling position on the floor. Kate joined her and promptly lifted the lid of the seat. "I overheard Peter's proposal at the party," Emma admitted. "And since you haven't mentioned it to me... I can only assume -"

"I shall not marry him," Kate said outright. "He does not meet my exacting standards. I find him to be a thoroughly conceited and overly-sanguine little twerp who makes me sneeze. At least, his trade does. By all accounts, he is a wholly unsuitable match."

Emma exhaled shakily and licked her lips. She considered that the excuses given were more in self-justification of rejection, than true, heartfelt opinion. "You say that now, but I know you better than you know yourself. Over time you will come to consider him to be the perfectly _logical_ option," she threw back, unintentionally sounding mocking.

"Did you overhear the discussion I had with Father?" asked Kate, her jaw clenching convulsively as if she were chewing on unvoiced words.

"No," replied Emma with curiosity, pushing up her sleeves and crossing her arms. "Does he know about Peter?"

"Being the dullard that he is, Peter asked Papa's permission first. I have been served with an ultimatum. Either I marry him or..." She stumbled over her words.

"Or?" prompted Emma.

"Or I leave for Ceylon with my parents. They no longer have sufficient monies to maintain the house and Father has been offered a senior role in the company should he make the move to Galle."

Emma paused, taken aback. "I don't mean to be self-centred but, if you should go, what would happen to me?"

Kate bit at her lower lip and rubbed at her temples. "It's to be a moderate household with a small staff. I'm not to take a companion. No doubt they intend to marry me off to the son of the maharaja or some such idiot."

Emma frowned. "Do you want to go?"

"I do not wish it, no," Kate said sorrowfully, shoulders sagging.

"Then do neither; just stay." Emma tucked a stray lock of hair behind Kate's ear.

Kate took a deep, ragged breath. A physical shudder in her stomach was made invisible by the restriction of her stays. "My allowance isn't sufficient for us to live without Father's support. Yours barely keeps you in new shoes."

"We don't have to live so well as this. My family would take us in." Emma shrugged dismissively. "I do _actually_ know that I require only a single pair of shoes."

Kate noted a small smirk appear at the corner of Emma's mouth, and it drove her heart to race. "We've no excuse for remaining spinsters; there is no dearth of men. And frankly, at the age of twenty-one, still not married, not even engaged, I have become an embarrassment to my mother."

"You have standards," Emma offered with an open palm.

Kate almost spat her reply, the sheet music crumpling in her hand. "What I have, Emma," her eyelashes fluttered, "is a problem."

Emma had always admired Kate's strength of character, her devotion to regulation, her vigour for life. She failed to see why these assets should fail her now. Those with money should also have the freedom to go without, she surmised, wondering if she had misjudged her long-time companion. "This just isn't you, Kate. You act where others dither." When Kate took her roughly by the arm, Emma reacted to the strong grasp with a momentary, inexpectant smile. Occasionally, she had wondered if she might force a faint and be caught, in order to receive Kate's attention and close hold. However, she was not the swooning type. Besides, it seemed entirely possible that Kate would allow her to fall merely for a lesson in pretence. She listened as Kate re-iterated the reasons for leaving, but they all rather escaped Emma's notice as she was instead quite focused on Kate's permanent, deep scowl and soft, pink lips.

"Your eyes are laughing at me." Kate sat back, releasing her grip.

"Oh, they are not," Emma protested weakly, blinking furiously as her heart pounded hard.

"What do you suggest?"

"About?"

Kate sighed with disappointment. "I trust you _have_ been listening, Emma?" She didn't wait for a pause. "Thought not," she admonished.

"I've no idea why you're fussing; your father doesn't have the wherewithal to force you to do anything."

"I need a means by which to live, Emma. One can't hitch up one's skirt, walk away and live happily ever after."

"And why not?"

"Because it's ridiculous and fanciful," Kate iterated pointedly.

"What of this then?" Emma took Kate's hands in her own. The shock of touch invoked a moment of stillness and reverie between them. "And hear me out before you start objecting."

Kate raised an eyebrow. "As if I would."

Emma pursed her lips and looked at Kate warily. "Hm... whatever you say, my longest and best known friend." Kate rolled her eyes in response. "Your family is tied to Middleford until the murder investigation is complete, yes?

"I expect as such," Kate replied, trying to concentrate on the words rather than the sensation of the smooth, tickling warmth that Emma's fingertips provided against her tense wrists.

"You see... I say we ask permission to stay with my aunt in the town centre until the whole thing is cleared up. I'll show you... the other side of life." Her eyes sparkled with a sort of mischievous glint.

"I dread to imagine what _you_ think that would involve."

"So is that a yes?" Emma's expression was full of unsuppressed excitement.

"Hardly," Kate sneered disdainfully. "I've far more important matters to attend to. Staying with your aunt is the last thing you'll find me doing."

* * *

Kate and Emma stood in the doorway, both peering down the hall to better see the housemaid fetch Emma's aunt. Matilda, Matty as she was known to the locals, bustled out to greet them. Taking them both by the hand, she looked them up and down like a pair of long lost daughters. "Ohh," she uttered. "Just wonderful." The small, pink-cheeked, plump woman scrunched her eyes with joy and gave them an excessively wide smile. "Joseph?" she shouted over her shoulder to her twelve-year old son, who ran out from behind her and nodded politely. "Take the trunks up, there's a good lad."

"Mrs Hallam-" Kate began.

"Pfft," Matilda interrupted, waving her hands dramatically and consequently causing Kate to make a startled and displeased face. "Formality, formality," she tutted. "You can relax here." She tapped Kate on the arm before making her way down the hallway, motioning for them to follow. Behind them, Joseph, who was a slim-framed, dusty-blonde scrap of a boy, struggled to heave their luggage up the staircase. "Don't you worry about them airs and graces for our sake," she shouted over her shoulder. "It's all free and easy here."

"Is it indeed?" Kate said under her breath, eyes transfixed in a downward glare. She found herself distracted by the state of Matilda's footwear: a pair of over-sized Persian slippers stuffed at the back with newspaper, in such a state of disrepair that, were it not for the dirt clinging to the threads, they might be entirely translucent.

"You must meet the other lodgers," Emma said, looking positively excited.

"I beg your pardon? Other _lodgers_?" Kate's eyes widened.

"Well you didn't suppose Aunt Matty lived here alone, did you? She's a widow... kept by the rooms she lets."

"Fantastic." Kate rolled her eyes. "Well... better now than being startled in middle of the night by a perfect stranger." She paced off, following Matilda down the creaky hallway, slyly spying this way and that, observing the lurid decor.

* * *

"Do get sat." Matilda turned to her paying guests who were sitting around a large oval dining table in the dimly lit dining room. "This is my dear niece, Emma Scribbins, my brother Henry's youngest, and her good friend Kathy -"

"Kate," Kate corrected, "Ashurst."

They were greeted by a series of nods and grumbles, with the majority of tenants paying far more attention to their bread and soup. One gentleman, however, rose to his feet and formally gave a little bow to each lady in turn. Ronald St. John, as he introduced himself, was a retired doctor; a well brought up man of wise old age. Emma found herself endeared to him simply because he was wearing a dining napkin tucked into his tight collar. As he smiled at them, his cheeks became framed by his neatly-trimmed, red-flecked, greying mutton chops. His cheery disposition, she noted, was sadly clouded by an indefinable look of loss in his dark brown eyes. _'Like __a __tame __old __lion,'_ Emma thought.

The evening meal passed quietly, though Kate couldn't help but be perturbed by her inability to identify the meat of the main course. "I hope we shall all get along." She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin then folded it neatly and placed it by her plate. "My companion and I will do our level best to respect your space."

Matilda slapped the table and laughed heartily. "Not much of that around here. Respect or space."

Kate continued with the point she wished to make. "As this is first and foremost _your_ home, and _not_ ours."

"You'll fit right in. Don't you worry," Matilda responded with a squint and nod. "And if you have any wants or desires -"

"Wanton desires!" Kate exclaimed, then, much to her own chagrin, realised her mistake and chased with a correction. "Oh! Wants... _or_ desires."

Matilda raised an eyebrow and elbowed the woman sitting to her right. "Yes, dear. Though I'm not sure we'd be able to provide whatever it is you were thinking of," she scoffed.

Kate looked horrified and quickly made her excuses to go to bed. "We shan't be staying long, but thank you for your kind hospitality, Mrs -" She received a cock-eyed stare from Matilda, but continued unabated, refusing to use a hypocorism with someone for whom she carried no affection "- Hallam." Kate gave a contained smile and clutched onto her purse. "Your home is very... welcoming."

* * *

"Squalid," said Kate, gulping away her mild revulsion as she forced the bedroom door shut behind them and tossed her clutch purse to one side. She held her nose to the smell of mildew to which they would all too soon become accustomed, and strode over to the paint-sealed window, which at first she battled to open, and finally did so successfully after applying a shoehorn to the catch. Kate looked over the rest of the room: narrow twin bedsteads with over-stuffed feather pillows and worn pastel bedspreads; mis-matched druggets scattered to cover the well-scraped boards; a dressing table coupled with a lone battered chair. Examination of the walls revealed patches of bare plaster where silverfish had consumed the undyed areas of wallpaper. Kate's nose wrinkled in disgust as she gave the fading fire a poke.

"Don't be silly, it's anything but," responded Emma with a dismissive flap of her hands. She knew quite well that much worse living conditions existed having, on occasion, visited her father's factory workers' homes as a child as part of their usual Christmas arrangement.

Kate perched on the end of a lumpy mattress, testing its firmness with a push of her palm. A jolt came from behind as the two beds collided, side by side. "What _are_ you doing?" she said, turning sharply.

"It will be cold," Emma offered with no further explanation.

"Why oh why did I ever allow myself to fall victim to this?" Kate raised her hands to the sky.

"Show a little enthusiasm, for cripe's sake," remarked Emma, suddenly perturbed by Kate's complete lack of optimism. "This is your opportunity for independence. I don't know if it's escaped your notice but I don't wish you to leave the country and I would rather die than see you marry Peter."

"Don't say such ridiculous things; you act as if you have a vested interest in my being in Middleford."

"I do."

"Complete twaddle. You no more rely on my presence than I do on yours." Kate swallowed and turned away.

* * *

Despite a number of years of companionship, Emma and Kate had never slept in the same room, let alone barely a foot apart. The notion was almost repugnant to Kate, being a person who relied deeply on privacy. She found herself acutely aware of Emma's every movement, and of the sighs and whimpers that filtered through the silence.

The deep red brocade counterpane itched her neck. She pushed it down and, just as she clenched shut her eyes, a soft weight fell on her chest. Emma's limp hand rose and fell with each heave of Kate's chest. Cautiously, she picked up the offending limb by the wrist and returned it to Emma's side. A tremendous twisting sensation wrenched at her base instincts. The taste of iron formed at the tip of her tongue causing her to realise that she had nipped so hard at her lip that it had bled. Holding her face in her hands, Kate could feel her own strong pulse through her fingertips.

Utterly torn by her seemingly sordid feelings, she turned onto her side to face Emma's serene figure. _'What __harm __could __an __innocent, __loving __touch __do?'_ she wondered, letting her hand cup Emma's cheek. Kate smiled, relaxed by the skin to skin contact. Emma stirred and moved, causing Kate's hand to drop to the base of her companion's neck, which she found to be pleasantly warm and pulsating. Her breath caught in her throat as she allowed her fingers to trace under the nightgown's neckline and back and forth across Emma's collarbone.

"Awake," she whispered commandingly, but received no response. Almost driven by the darkness and newness of the situation, she guided her hand back towards herself, then southwards over Emma's chest. Her palm fell to a rest on rumpled cotton. Kate felt a curious warmth on her thigh and quickly realised that Emma's hand had risen under the sheets and was pressed against her. Embarrassed, she turned quickly away, face towards the window. Heart stomping against her rib cage, breathing so laboured that she held her mouth closed to cease the noise.

Emma blearily awoke. "Kate?" she whispered so softly that it sounded as though she'd barely pronounced the first letter. No response came and so she sank back into her pillow and reached out to gently run her fingers through Kate's dark, silken hair, quite unaware of Kate's wide-eyed attempts at stillness.

* * *

"You've missed breakfast," said the stern voice in Emma's ear, spoken by the figure perched on the bedside. Opening her eyes, Emma noted that it was a fully dressed Kate looking down on her. Kate's face bore a scolding frown and Emma couldn't help wonder why it was that she had dressed alone. Self-donning a corset being a faff at the best of times. "There, I knew that would wake you," Kate said sharply. "You haven't actually missed breakfast, but I shan't wait for long."

Emma pouted and frowned, but was secretly excited about the day. "You act like breakfast is the highlight of my day," she uttered, covering a smirk.

"No, indeed, I know for certain that it _isn't_ because you have been known to rise at _two_ o'clock in the _afternoon_."

Emma wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "I object! It occurred once only, and there were extenuating circumstances."

"Extenuating circumstances refer to times of inability or illness, Emma. Not because the previous night someone in the village mistook you for your mother and, thereupon, you decided you required double beauty sleep." Kate frowned deeply. She had tried to cultivate Emma into a well-to-do, rule bound, young woman. However, for some reason, despite all knowledge and advice imparted, Emma remained almost entirely the same girl that Kate had met many years ago.

"You look... rough around the edges," Emma noted. "You seemed to sleep soundly, did you not? Did you have nightmares?" Peering at the pink scratches on Kate's neck, she reached out to touch the affected area.

"Don't." Kate drew away, covering her throat with her hand.

"Was your side uncomfortable? You could have mine tonight."

Kate shook her head and clapped urgently. "Get dressed. Let us begin this period of life education, which you seem _so_desirous to give me."

"Well..." Emma sat up against the bed's metal frame, her expression serious and wincing. "You might not like this..."

"I never suspected I would."

"I want to look into Millie's death."

Kate closed her eyes, a look of disbelief on her face. "Pardon?"

"I want to trace her murderer."

"Of all the foolhardy things." Kate rubbed at her temple. "It's not our place," she added before resenting herself for using the expression. "I... " Her chest rose and fell slowly, clearly thinking on the idea.

"I've already interviewed Ellen."

"Chennells? When?" asked Kate, surprised. "Oh, never mind. What makes you think we could make any headway?"

"You're intrigued." Emma smiled sweetly.

"Nonsense." Kate pursed her lips. "However, I'd rather do something of interest than... say, visiting a butcher shop or making nice with the locals." She waved her hand about her head. "So what have we?"

Emma smiled knowingly, then indicated for Kate to retrieve a slim notebook from the pocket in the lining of her skirt, which was lying across a chair adjacent. A platform ticket, also Millie's, fluttered out and they both bowed towards the floor to catch it. Kate snatched it up first, but finding herself awkwardly close to Emma with cheeks almost touching, she pulled back suddenly. They were both momentarily lost for words.

"Right." Emma cleared her throat. "Millie's surname was Brookes; she was sixteen. Strangled in the kitchen. Ellen showed me this." Emma unfolded a piece of paper and handed it to Kate, then huddled against her, shoulder to shoulder so that she might read it with her.

"A poorly written poem? And that's useful, how?"

"Name scrawled at the bottom... Alfred." Emma tapped at the bottom of the page.

"Not exactly a wealth of information to wheedle out a murderer." Kate shook her head, passing the notepaper and ticket back to Emma. "What am I even saying? This is _utterly_ ridiculous." She rose to her feet, took a deep breath, checked her appearance in the grubby mirror, and headed towards the door. She turned back to Emma, who was still sitting on the edge of the bed in her night things. "Well? Are you going to rise, wash and dress? We haven't much time."

* * *

"So what, who or where first?" asked Kate, tugging on her gloves as they stepped out of the Hallam house and into the morning sunshine.

"A visit to the butchers to make nice with the locals of course." Emma smiled a knowing smile.

"Very amusing."

"No, genuinely." Emma nodded westwards. "This way. Shake a leg. Quick march."

"Oh hell," Kate muttered.


	4. Fashioning Guilt From Love

Kate peered through the window of the Brookes' shop. The interior was dark. Skin-clad meat hung eerily static from hooks bolted to the ceiling. Racks of sharp steel knives lined the back wall. She tried the door again but it was most definitely locked.

Emma trampled her way back up to the main road from the side street, pointing over her shoulder. "Millie's family are out. Peg said -"

"Peg? And that's a person, is it?" asked Kate. Emma nodded in reply. Kate looked bemusedly down the dim alleyway at the ruddy, rough-faced woman to whom Emma had spoken. She would later swear that she had seen the woman spit and hiss through an insufficient number of teeth. Reeling back with revulsion, she pulled at Emma's sleeve to guide her away.

"They're at the funeral." Emma frowned and smiled simultaneously.

Kate nodded demurely, eyes on her shoes. "Well, perhaps we were always destined to fall at the first leap. Let's get back, take some tea and, perhaps... lemon biscuits?"

"No sooner have I you engaged in this, than I have lost you. Have some grit, woman."

"Emma!" Kate exclaimed, re-fixing her hat pin.

"You're no fun these days! Where is your desire for adventure? I know you have one. I've seen you as a bold youth: bounding over rocks to wade into limpet pools; investigating; discovering; bearing the wrath of your mother after muddying your stockings and ruining your shoes. When did that sweet, little girl fade? The one who domineered her peers, corrected her misinformed tutors, held tight to her values while never forgetting to dream. You have been supplanted, suppressed, become this woman who derails herself each time something new and exciting arrives." Emma looked at forlornly at Kate who was pursing her lips stoically. "I still believe that girl is in there." Emma pressed lightly at Kate's ribs with leather-gloved fingers.

"Please desist poking me in the street." Kate's cheeks grew warm as she swallowed her nerves diffidently. "You're not the person you once were either; testament by the very fact that you have not run away to join the circus to become a juggler-cum-lion-tamer."

"Yet." Emma smirked.

Kate's cold front dropped. "Why do you insist on being so... so... "

"Perceptive?"

"Likable," she conceded with a broad smile. "Very well, Emma. What do you suggest? Your behest shall be my directive."

"If that were really the case then I might have the mind to have you strip to your naked skin and dash past the police station."

"Little cold today." A quirk of a smirk played across Kate's lips.

* * *

"I don't believe this to be quite prudent," Kate said, running her fingers distractedly along the looped soutache braid that trimmed the lapels of her taupe, woollen jacket.

Emma felt quite certain on this matter. "Millie was part of our household for four years, Kate. How is this _not_ part of our moral obligations?"

"We've no business... four years?" She frowned. "But I barely even came in contact with her. How ridiculous is that? Four years and I never even spoke to the blasted girl. It's all rather..."

"Hollow?" Emma suggested as she led the way up through the steep grassy cemetery to skim the periphery of a smattering of hundred-year-old graves, all of which had weather-eroded epitaphs, much obscured by a faint frost formed from the morning's heavy dew.

The Brookes family were gathered beside one of the poorer plots. The area was peppered by a sea of modest headstones, many of which had sunken lazily into the ground or split horizontally. A scale of children ranging in heights lined the side of the grave: Millie's siblings. Her father stood stoney-faced, legs astride. Her mother, similarly dour in expression, clutched her second eldest daughter to her side: the girl was pale and weak, a continuous stream of tears falling from her eyes. The staff of Ardmoore Grange stood left of the priest. Clement looked up to see Kate and Emma approach and semi-bowed, which caused the family to look their way.

'Millicent Louisa Brookes - Aged 16. Died 17th January 1907'. No other inscription. The 6 was set lower than the other characters, the engraver having corrected a mistake. A sad affair in more ways than one.

Kate let her head drop as the last prayer was recited. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed a young man, poorly dressed, hand in his pocket, hat to his chest. He stood a good hundred feet away, no part of the proceedings. With his sleeve, he pulled across his cheek to wipe dry his tears. Kate nudged Emma and alerted for her to watch for the boy.

The funeral ended and the family slunk away after thanking Kate and Emma for their presence. Finally, with only Kate and Emma remaining at the graveside, the boy who was once caught in the shadow, emerged into the daylight. He looked at the coffin and threw a little earth onto the name plate. He appeared older than they previously thought, perhaps nineteen or twenty. His hair was unkempt, face ruddy and childlike, ears pronounced outward. His adam's apple visibly bobbed as he suppressed his emotions.

Emma took a chance. "Were you her man?"

"Man, Miss?" he asked, rolling the brim of his hat in his hands.

"Her suitor," Kate added.

"Oh." He looked forlornly at the grave, his body jerking with shivers. "Not no more, Miss. "

"Alfred?" Emma tried, recalling the notes she had made.

"S'right. What of it?" he asked defensively as his left eye twitched.

"Can we buy you a cup of tea? You look like you could do with one."

* * *

Alfred didn't realise he was, essentially, being interrogated, but then Kate and Emma didn't recognise that either, and they were the ones asking the questions. One of the waitresses at Tippett's Tea Rooms clattered a tray onto the small, round table. A stand of dainty cakes and pastries followed.

"I says to her, I said 'Millie-girl, I need you to do me a favour'." Alfred pushed his mousey-brown hair out of his eyes nervously, pulling his elbows in tightly so that Kate could be mother and pour the tea.

"A favour?" Emma leant forward and listened more intently.

"I said: 'I got this friend and he's asked me to collect a package from this train, once a week for a month or so'. 'Yes, Alf,' she says to me. She was agreeable like that. But I says to her, I says, 'I can't make it, and seeing as how it's your' - her - 'day off on a Wednesday, can you collect f'me and take it to my friend's uncle?' Only he wasn't my friend and it weren't his uncle."

"So how did you come to meet this man... who wasn't your friend?" asked Kate, who was distractedly watching Emma pile her plate high with scones.

"It was for a ring," Alfred sighed. "I was goin' to ask Mil' to marry me. This lavender-cove -" Emma mouthed the words 'pawnbroker' at Kate "- said if I had a girl who would deliver a few things then he could help me out." His hands were shaking so hard that he was almost making the table shudder.

"And he was the 'uncle' of which you speak?" He nodded in reply. "Did you never think to ask why they wanted a woman to collect?" Kate was highly suspicious of the pawnbroker; it showed in her expression.

"No. Why, should I 'ave?" He looked puzzled.

"You say that was the last time you saw her?" asked Emma, her mouth a little too full for Kate's liking.

"Yes, Miss. She agreed she'd do it and I never heard nuffink since." He sighed and rubbed at his red-rimmed eyes. "She was too good to die so young. She never done wrong, always looking out for others over hersel'." Fumbling, he knocked his tea and it spilled across the table.

Kate handed him a napkin. "What about the 'friend'?" she asked.

"I didn't know him," he admitted. "The broker said where to go, that's all."

"Can you write down the address of the shop?" Emma shuffled a piece of paper towards him.

He looked blankly at it, then at his trembling hands. "Err, Miss. How 'bout I just tell you and you write it down in your nice hand?" Wincing, he pressed a dirty finger to the page and pushed it back towards her.

* * *

Arm in arm they strolled along the Oldgate Parade, Kate intermittently stabbing the street with the steel tip of her rain parasol. "Whatever that pawnbroker is up to, it can't possibly be legal." She swept her hand through the air.

"Why?" asked Emma, noting with delight Kate's passion for mystery.

"Because they chose an anonymous, innocent woman to transport the goods, one who wouldn't be stopped or questioned. Any man carrying a package once a week to a broker would be stopped by the police for suspicious behaviour."

"I get you! Crafty creature. So you think the train chap must be the perpetrator of dodgy dealings?" Emma tapped at her lips. "Oh, look it's the police station. Time for your naked flit," Emma joked.

Kate smirked. "Alas, still far too chilly."

"Let's go in."

"Don't be ridiculous. This is not a community tea gathering open to the aimless and unmarried -" she began, but Emma was already halfway up the steps and with much irritation, Kate followed.

Timidly, they swung open the large oak door and watched in awe as Sergeant Gallimore pushed Gerald Clement into a steel-doored room. Their view became suddenly blocked.

"May I help you, ladies?" Inspector Sullivan asked with a raised eyebrow.

* * *

"But... Clement?" asked Emma, her lip curling. "Surely not. He hasn't got the face for it. He'd be gruffer, more evil in the eye. Gnarled." She made a face which she had designated that of a killer.

"He _was_ in the house." Sullivan held his palm out.

"We were _all_ in the house," Kate protested.

"He attended the funeral and it is well known for a -"

"We _all_ attended the funeral."

"He has a record." Sullivan guided them into his office and drew out chairs for them both. "Do you have one of those too?"

Kate looked aghast. "I can assure you that all our staff undergo a rigorous check of their references."

"People lie, Ms Ashurst. He most definitely has a record." Sullivan checked his papers. "For petty theft and drunken brawling no less."

Shocked into silence, Kate bit her tongue and pulled her hands down onto her lap. "I see."

"That doesn't make him a murderer, though." Emma winced. "Does it? He's been in our service since he was a boy."

"It happens: a fight between staff; a regretful love affair; broken temper. That sort of thing," he explained.

"And you have proof of this?" Kate said softly, saddened.

"We expect a confession within the hour."

"So you have no physical clues to tie Gerald to the event?" asked Emma, tapping at the desk with her finger.

Pursing his lips, Sullivan adjusted his tie and collar nervously. "Once we have a confession, we won't need evidence. Besides, he doesn't have a witnessed alibi."

* * *

Kate strode quickly around the outskirts of the park's lake, biting at her bottom lip. "I don't hold with this. At all. Clement is not the type. I'd swear it."

Emma cheeks were beginning to pinken from the cold. She tugged at the wide brim of her hat in an attempt to shield her face from the wind. Her mouth formed a shrug along with her shoulders. "Maybe he is."

"Well if that's the case, then there is no point looking into this crime; the police have everything under investigation." Kate's nose wrinkled.

"Not everything." Emma raised an eyebrow. Reaching into her pocket, she brought out the platform ticket, which had been enclosed in Alfred's poem.

"That doesn't mean anything," Kate dismissed.

"Everyone Millie knew is local. All her friends, her lover, her family. Who would she be waiting for at the train station?" She knew the answer, just wanted to encourage Kate to give it.

"The package that Alfred mentioned!" Kate exclaimed, causing a few passers-by to grant her a look of disdain, and frightening a few geese. "To be collected from the train. Of course!" With fists balled, she stood rigidly and waited for an epiphany. One did not arrive. "And _how_ is this interesting?"

"Kate!" Emma tutted. "Who's to say that Millie hasn't been replaced as the go-between?"

"Another girl?"

Emma nodded. "Don't you want to know what Millie was involved in? It's probably illegal; you made the assumption yourself. Make _this_our challenge instead of the murder. Prove to this town that we are more than just a pair of empty-headed girls."

* * *

Kate checked the time. "I count four hours. We've had three trays of tea, upset the station master twice and spied no one _particularly_ suspicious, apart, that is, from that odd woman in blue who I think may be running an illegal betting syndicate."

"She was going on ninety!" Emma looked at Kate agog.

"Age is irrelevant. I'd like to think I'd be sufficiently spry to gather together a cock-fighting organisation at ninety." Kate pouted then sneered. "Not that I intend to, you understand." Sighing deeply, she returned her gaze to the grime-occluded window. "This is worse than watching my mother and her friends play Whist. Emma, saucer up," she commanded with narrowed eyes. The waiting room doors and tables began to shudder as a freight train passed through the station without slowing. "This is taking _far_ too long to reach a satisfactory conclusion."

"Said the actress to the bishop," Emma whispered under her breath as she peered out at the platform, holding the crockery tight, tea sloshing up the sides of the china cup. "Perhaps we should come back tomorrow."

"Today is Wednesday. It is the logical day to wait, however, the girl may have been and gone. Or a male might have been selected. _Or_ this might all be some great fancy we have concocted for our own amusement. I don't know about you, but I'm having a most _splendid_ time," Kate replied with a touch of droll sarcasm.

"Tea down, head up," Emma insisted with a flap of her hands. "Look. A lone girl."

Together they scurried out onto the platform and attempted to look inconspicuous. "_Try_ to look like you aren't touched in the head, please," she chided Emma in a whisper as a train rolled to a stop through a cloud of steam and smoke.

Through the periphery of her vision, Emma watched the raven-haired young woman approach the tail-end carriage door. They observed her feet shuffle impatiently as she looked back and forth, rubbing at her temples. The door swung open with a clank and a small brown-paper parcel was passed down. Timidly the girl took it and stuffed it under arm. With trepidation, she turned and ran off to the exit gate. "Come on, let's follow her," Emma enthused.

"No," Kate said sternly. "We know where she's going. What we need to find out is _who_ is on that train."


	5. An Undeniable Draw

In a rush, they boarded the train. The door was slammed with a loud thunk and a whistle sharply blown. The open carriage was distinctly packed and they were greeted by a barrage of disorganised bodies filtering into place like ducklings through a gateway. Had the train been compartmentalised, their task would have been infinitely easier. Kate and Emma marched their way through with difficulty, stopping halfway to purchase two returns from the rather sweaty-faced inspector. The man ripped the stubs free, pressed them into Kate's hand and then shuffled past; it was a tight squeeze. Huddled into a corner, a pre-pubescent lad began fumbling in his pockets for money, his jaw tensing convulsively. Suddenly, he made a dive into the aisle, knocking the ticketmaster to one side and causing the dispensing machine to almost collide with the head of another passenger. There was something of an uproar. People gathered at the end of the carriage and watched the inspector chase the boy. The crowd jeered.

Kate and Emma looked around for the man who had handed over the package, with no idea of what kind of person they were looking for. They observed a group of schoolgirls talking excitedly, a serious-looking suited type, a gentleman of the army, several middle-aged wifely women, and a plainly-dressed man with a bicycle. However, barely half the carriage had remained; the rest had bundled after the boy - some in outrage, others in encouragement. Dejected, Kate and Emma flopped down into a pair of seats.

"This is daft. We're getting off at the next stop," sighed Kate.

"But -" came the swift objection from Emma, who didn't like to cease a chase.

"No, I won't hear another suggestion or remark. We shall disembark at the next station," she intoned, then gritted her teeth. "Then we shall give up this pitiful venture."

"Don't you want to be here with me?" Folding her arms, Emma pursed her lips tightly and huffed. "Anyone would think you _wanted_ to go to India."

"Ceylon," corrected Kate.

"What's the difference?"

"Oh I _really_ couldn't say. Um." Kate rolled her eyes dramatically. "The deep and treacherous sea between them!"

"Don't avoid my observation by talking of technicalities," Emma scolded.

Kate lowered her voice to a hiss. "Perhaps I'd be better appreciated abroad." She wanted Emma to react, to deny the fact.

Emma's eyes welled with tears. "Fine." She shrugged, closing her eyes and turning her head towards the window.

The journey continued in an intense silence, save for the mutterings of other passengers. Finally, an announcement was made: "South Tothern!" echoed the voice of the inspector. The train chugged into the station.

Rising quickly, Kate stormed off, throwing open the door before the train had come to a complete stop. As soon as she could, she bounded out, paced down the platform and crossed the steps to the other side. Emma ran after her. "Have your ruddy ticket." Kate turned sharply and roughly threw the greenish stub at her companion.

The train departed and they were left all alone in the station. "You'd never be more appreciated than you are here," Emma placated in earnest. "God's honest truth." She crossed her heart with a slender finger.

Kate closed her eyes and rubbed at her upper arms in a sort of self-embrace. "You look like an idiot," she remarked, tipping her head to the right and nodding towards Emma's state of dress. The barest hint of a smile spread across her lips.

"Wha?" Emma twirled on the spot and found that the rear of her coat was completely covered in white powder, as were her sleeves. "Oh, bloody hell," she cursed, batting at her behind.

"Public transport for you. Here." Kate approached and swiped the dust away. "Turn," she demanded. Bending her knees slightly, she grasped Emma's side tightly and brushed away what remained. Sliding her hand onto Emma's abdomen, she brought them a little closer. Emma shuddered as her stomach seemed to twist and drop with a resentful delight; her eyelashes fluttered as fingertips dug at her waist. "I think it's chalk or flour," commented Kate inanely, seeking an excuse not to let go and a reason to stare intently. Standing upright, she continued to sweep specks from Emma's shoulders until every last smudge was gone. Even then she continued, the skin on her palms tingling lightly.

Emma reached over with one hand and grasped Kate's fingers tightly. "The train is coming," she uttered quietly, a lump in her throat.

* * *

"Shandy-gaff, dear?" Matilda asked Kate, then tilted the glass to pour it anyway. It fizzed happily and settled. Kate dubiously lowered her gaze towards the table and pinged the tumbler with a fingernail, agitating the bubbles. Emma, on the other hand, was already on her third bumper.

"You'll be pleased to hear they've released your footman, that Clement boy. His sister came forward to corroborate his where'bouts on the night. She said she was visiting the Grange. Good, ain't it?" Matilda smiled. "I heard it from Sylv, who heard it from Peg."

_'The __all-seeing-eye __of __Peg,'_ mused Kate. "Golly, really?" she said aloud, taking a sip of the amber liquid and rather liking it. "Unsettling for the Brookes."

"Poor, poor family. No peace for them." She nodded, eyes bleary.

"Tragic set of circumstances. They've the funeral tomorrow," Ronald added as he sucked on his pipe, forlornly exhaling sweet-smelling smoke into the room.

By the fire, Emma was being twirled by a girl of a similar age named Sarah; it spiked jealousy in Kate's chest. "We went to the funeral today," Emma corrected, shaking her head.

"You can't have, my sweetheart," said Matilda with certainty. "Enid only died this evening."

"Who's Enid?" Kate leant forward, turning her ear to the conversation and frowning. Half her glass had been drained, her cheeks were flushed. To Emma's amusement Kate briefly sported a thin froth moustache, which was, to Emma's disappointment, duly wiped away with a handkerchief.

"Enid Brookes," Matilda explained. "She's been weak for some time now and I dare say losing her sister pushed her over the edge." She held her hand to her heart.

"So not another murder?" asked Kate.

"Murder? No!" Matilda leant back on her chair and blew a small raspberry. "They're not that bloody unlucky, dear. My God."

"Lordie." Emma stopped suddenly and just swayed a little, recalling the girl clutched to her mother's side at Millie's funeral. "Poor bloomin' family."

"As I say," said Matilda, raising her drink towards her niece. "So, anyway, I also heard the rozzers have got their thumb on Mil's young man. The Snell boy."

"Alfred?" asked Kate, mouth agape.

"That's the one." Matilda nodded, tipping back the foam at the bottom of her glass as she circled the room towards the drinks cabinet, her bottom sliding along the wall rail for support. "He confessed as soon as they had him through the door."

* * *

For the first time in all their years together, Kate was the one more fuddled with alcohol than Emma. Dragging each other up the stairs, a stumbling Kate came to a rest, pressing against Emma in a half-cuddle, and pushing her against the banister, head dropping sleepily onto her shoulder.

Wedging her heel against a baluster, Emma maintain the awkward, trapped position. "Silly girl," she quietly chastised, reaching around Kate's back and interlinking her fingers to support her at the waist. "What'm I going t'do with you?" she muttered into Kate's sweet-scented hair. "And 'bove all, how do I get you to _stay_ with me?"

* * *

Alfred sat in the cold corridor of Middleford police station, his wrists in shackles, fingertips still faintly inky. This time around, Kate and Emma had felt no qualms about visiting the station; in fact, they had already learnt the names of all the officers therein and taken tea with the duty man before the Inspector returned from a visit late that morning. However, their pleas to speak to Millie's young lover were denied.

"Alfred has confessed. It's a done case," replied Sullivan, crossing his arms defensively.

"You believe it was that _boy_?" said Kate with considerable doubt in her voice. "Yesterday you were ready to swear it was Gerald Clement."

Emma walked away from them and over to Alfred who had his head in his hands. An officer tried to stop her in her tracks, but she spoke over his broad shoulder. "Alf, where did you get the knife you used to kill Millie?"

"I... I don't know, her -" he swallowed thickly "- her pa's shop, I s'pose." Tears formed in his eyes.

Kate held out an outstretched hand in the direction of the accused. "Inspector Sullivan, how can you hold the man when he doesn't even know the _method_ by which the victim was killed?" she asked with incredulity.

Sullivan pursed his lips and tried to look stern. He coughed. "It's not unusual for a criminal to lie so as to appear innocent. Double bluff."

"And Alfred appears to you as a master criminal, does he?" she asked sardonically.

"His memory for the incident is hazy; he was drunk on the night in question and a witness saw him catch a ride on the mill cart that was delivering to the Grange. The confession is indisputable, what more do we require?"

"What you have there is a confused young man; what you _require_ is the real murderer, Inspector Sullivan." Kate gripped tightly onto her purse and stood up a little straighter. Emma linked arms with her and they strode out together.

"I've never seen you so alive," Emma whispered proudly into Kate's ear.

* * *

Seated in the same tearoom as the previous day, Emma dipped her head down and peered into Kate's eyes. "They're going to hang the wrong man, I know it. Alf has lost the love of his life; what must that be like? He won't know where he's at. They've hauled him in and convinced him that he did it. What would you do if you lost the love of your life?"

"The love of _my_ life?" Kate said softly, not understanding the question.

"Sorry. One. What would _one_ do?" Emma shook her head, presuming Kate was correcting her grammar.

"Oh." Kate coughed. "If one lost, what one considered to be, the love of one's life, one would, presumably, feel completely lost oneself. But then, Alfred is young; who is to say they were in love? Who is to say they understand what love is, or what form it takes?"

"It doesn't matter. If somewhere, deep in your... one's bones, you - I mean, one - feels an ache for her, then there is no denying what may or may not be classified as storybook love. Because one can't deny the quickening of the heart."

Kate blinked. "But you cannot honestly say that you... _one_ would be so distraught by the loss of that loved one, that one would hand oneself to the police for the heinous crime of the murder of selfsame loved one? Oh, this conversation is simply ridiculous. Enough." She slapped her hand on the table, causing the teacups to rattle. "Why would Alfred hand himself in, unless he _is_ guilty?"

"Pain and grief can cause us to do silly things." Emma shrugged. "Besides, I thought we both believed Alfred to be innocent?"

"Perhaps the inspector is right; his was just a well-spun story to avoid the noose."

"Then why confess at all? Why not be arrested against his will? The outcome is the same."

Hiding behind a teacup, Kate bit her lip gently. "I don't know."

* * *

"Mr Brookes, Mrs Brookes: we are so sorry for your loss." Kate bowed her head as they were accepted into the home. All the family members were dressed in black, or as near as they could evidently find. A small set of sandwiches and a collection of bottles of stout sat on a dresser under a large mirror. Enid's wake was grim to say the least.

"You're Miss Ashurst and Miss Scribbins?" The mother stepped forward. "I remember you from the day I dropped my Millie off in your service. You are fair grown."

With as much solemnity as she could muster, Emma said: "The family are shocked at this turn of events. Our thoughts are with you."

"Thank you, Ma'am." Mrs Brookes blinked slowly. "We're content the police are doing their job. They boy will be executed," she sneered coldly.

Kate swallowed. "We understand that you lost another of your children -"

"Last night. Broken heart. Came on sudden," she replied curtly. "Took to her bed, became fevered; the doctor said there was nothing we could do. May I offer you a refreshment?" On receiving an affirmative, Mrs Brookes walked over to her husband and spoke to him under her breath.

Kate narrowed her eyes imperceptibly and whispered into Emma's ear. "Very queer attitude. Something smacks of wrong here: very, very wrong."

* * *

Dusk was falling. Rainwater from an afternoon's downpour pooled around Emma's deep-grey patent shoes. Winter's early twilight glow reflected on a puddle's surface. Emma kicked at it simply to watch the ripples die. Kate was peering through the window of the now closed pawn shop. This was their third unsuccessful visit, having always found it shut up. Looking up, Emma's heart seemed to tug in Kate's direction and felt like it was pulling out of place strangely. Her throat swelled with the anxiety of a deep, brooding longing.

"Emma," Kate whispered, beckoning with an outstretched arm.

Inside, a slight figure snaked frantically about the room, sweeping a hoard of valuables into a rugged sack. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he uncorked a bottle with his teeth and shakily stuffed half the fabric into the neck. Kate and Emma watched entranced as he held his thumb over the bottle's opening and tipped it upside down to let the liquid soak in. Unaware of his intention, they remained by the window, both trying to better make out the man's face.

"Fetch a policeman." Kate nudged Emma.

"Not likely. I want to see what he's going to do. You fetch one," Emma insisted.

Kate scowled, her bottom lip twitching with agitation. As she looked back at the window, her eyes adjusted to the now bright light that shone within. The man was gone, leaving in his wake a flaming pool of glass shards. They both took a step back with shock but couldn't help but stare as the flames took.

With natural curiosity, they watched the blazing ballet. Scraps of paper began to curl, embers glowing at their edges, and burning slowly they began to float, rising up to bounce off the embossed ceiling and cornice edging, only to flutter down to the floor leaving sooty smudges on the rug. The air fast became thick with ash and shreds of flaming paper, some cascading upwards while others happily drifted about in the hot turbid air. The curtains began to sweep back and forth as the flames kicked higher.

A door slammed. Footsteps. "Stop," Kate cried out, then when the figure did exactly as bid, she wondered why she had done it.

He spoke, never turning to reveal himself fully. "You've no business here. Hook it." Kate noticed that he was well shod, and a well-tailored hat appeared to cover a balding head.

"We'll call for the police," Emma said uncertainly.

"Just leave be what you don't understand," he whispered into the night. "Get away and stay away," he warned with a low growl.

Watching him flee, they shared a joint feeling: a rush of keen desire, which taunted them, drawing them towards a chase. But it was no good; he had disappeared into the shadows before they could even fathom his direction. Dejected, they glanced behind them, now alone with the almost awe-inspiring view of the burning room beyond the glass pane. An extraordinary sight, the likes of which they had never witnessed. So entranced by the sight, their muscles seemed to seize; a form of mental paralysis taking hold as the fire became an all-consuming, destructive conflagration. Beautiful and terrifying all at once, like a stormy wave or lightning strike.

The glazing of the window popped in a way they could never have understood or expected. It shattered outwards; shards spat suddenly through the air. The warmth enveloped them like a hot bath, stifling their movement and restricting their ability to inhale. Emma clutched at her side instinctively, searing pain driving across her abdomen, just below the line of her corset. The flames engulfing the building drew higher and wilder, and by the bright, flickering light, she could see blood on her hands; it dripped slickly between her fingers like ink from a tipped well.

Breath stopping short in her throat, her knees gave way and she fainted.


	6. Don't Say You Care

"Stop this nonsense at once," Kate growled as she pressed her lips firmly against Emma's blanched cheek. With her free hand she pulled frantically at the knot of Emma's cream-coloured, woollen tie, but still her companion remained motionless. Her pallid skin, lit only by flickers of firelight, appeared waxen. So frail, still and almost polished in appearance, Emma looked, for all intents and purposes, like a porcelain doll; so much so that one might assume that her eyelids remained shut simply because her head was tilted back. On receiving no reply or response, Kate unfastened several buttons to reveal the shallow rise and fall at the base of Emma's neck. "You're barely even hurt," she shouted angrily, her voice shredded by fear and emotion. Despite her words, her facial expression showed only anguish and concern. "Stop being so... so _bloody _obstinate." Kate licked her lips and swallowed hard.

A number of frantic taps to the face eventually revived Emma. Blinking rapidly, she found her mouth in a pleasant proximity to Kate's neck. Feeling remarkably coddled and safe, she smiled serenely. "I fell... and you caught me," she said breathlessly, as she placed her right hand on Kate's taught upper arm and squeezed hard. "I can't believe it."

Smoke began to billow from the building and itch their already heat-stung eyes. With Kate's help, Emma was able to regain her strength and they removed themselves from the area, tucking themselves into an alley close by and away from danger. Kate roughly folded her shawl and carefully placed it against the bloody fabric at Emma's side. As she did so, she noticed that the gathered furrows of Emma's skirt were dark with blood. She slid her other hand behind Emma to exert pressure from the back as well as the front. Her frown didn't ease as she looked into Emma's warm, brown eyes. "I... " Kate looked at the ground. "For one awful moment, I thought -"

"I know," said Emma trying, but failing, to be reassuring. She moved her hand up to Kate's cheek, brushing the soft skin and sweeping aside stray locks of hair, before letting her fingers encircle Kate's ear, then slide round to the nape of her neck. "You caught me," Emma repeated with a note of incredulity. Kate breathed heavily, mouth partially open, raising her head as they leant in close. The atmosphere between and around them was oppressive, with the cold wind pulling and whipping at their clothes fiercely. Kate pressed harder at the small of Emma's back, unintentionally causing a keen pulse of pain, which forced Emma's eyes to shut briefly and a juddering gasp to pass from her mouth.

The tips of their noses almost touched. Hot breath tingled invitingly on each other's chilled lips. Hearts thumped madly. A storm of feelings tumbled, rose and rolled around inside their chests. They inched closer. Emma's look darted from Kate's eyes to her lips and back again. Holding their position locked, they remained as if frozen in mid-movement of an intimate dance. Neither woman was able to make the move that would surely change their lives. They stood and breathed each other's scent, perfume and breath, while listening to the sound of vapour-filled air as it rushed into their deeply inhaling lungs. Kate's fingers ruffled the cloth of Emma's blouse whilst Emma gently stroked the smooth silken hairs at the base of Kate's neck.

"You're trembling," Emma rasped.

A loud echoing bang rang out, followed by the screech of a cat. Sharply, it brought them back from the place they had found in each other's eyes. Close by, someone's voice could be heard, and that someone was swearing like a trooper. Emma and Kate stood, still clinging on, held by torso and neck, and looked out to the street.

"Wotcher, cock, be you desirin' any servicin'? Supper for one?" asked the rather slovenly woman who had come drifting drunkenly around the corner. "Oh, ladies. Do beg me pardon. It's been as slow as a wet week, and right now I'd take any." She raised her hands and came to a rest, shouldering the brick wall and slumping heavily against it. With a slanted look, she grinned, her lip curling with a queer but devious delight. "Got your hands full, I see." The woman shook lank strands of hair from her eyes as she visibly ran her tongue over her back molars suggestively.

"May I help you?" Kate spat as she untangled herself from a blushing Emma's embrace.

The strange woman's glazed eyes became hooded as she sniggered. "No, you're all right as you are, loves."

"Come, we had better get you home to see the doctor," Kate whispered calmly into Emma's ear.

"I know." Emma grimaced as they unsteadily stumbled into the open street, arm in arm, Kate still clutching the shawl to Emma's side as they set off for the house and away from unwanted gazes.

* * *

Doctor St. John took Kate out onto the landing to explain the situation. "The wound itself wasn't as serious as the blood loss," he urged. "She's running a fever, but it is most certain to pass. I hope you don't mind playing nurse maid to her for a time. But fear not, she is well patched." He tapped the back of Kate's hand gently but it provided little more comfort than his words alone.

"I am so grateful for your help." Kate raised her hand to her throat. Doctor St. John smiled sweetly and went to leave. "Doctor?" she begged him back.

"Ronald, please." He raised a finger and cast her a semi-chiding look.

"If you don't mind my commenting, you don't seem the sort of gentleman to lodge in a place such as this. A medic of your training, skills and deportment..."

"You believe I am residing below my station?" he asked with a tilt of his head and a stroke of his well-shaven chin.

Kate suddenly felt inordinately rude but continued regardless. "Frankly? Yes."

"I often intend to find a permanent household, but something always draws me back," he replied sagely. "Why deny myself happiness just to enter into a life where the trammels of a middle-class existence might make me miserable?"

"Why indeed." Kate nodded in agreement and scowled with contemplation. "Why _indeed_."

* * *

Emma lay awake, a resurgence of pain having stemmed the tide of a deep sleep. Slices of daylight crept in through the curtains. In the half light, she could make out Kate's figure spooning her side, still fully clothed and laying on top of the covers, fast asleep. Despite the bandage wrapped around her midriff pulling uncomfortably, Emma grabbed hold of Kate's hand and pulled her wrist up to her mouth, where she planted a kiss directly on the pulse point. "Thank you, Miss Ashurst. Thank you for catching me."

* * *

A week or so passed, and each day Emma grew stronger. The gauze strapped to her side had been reduced to the size of her palm. Today she lay on her side in bed, dressed only in a white nightgown, covered in swathes of white linen and an untidy-looking patch quilt. Her left hand was propped under her head, with fingers clutching her golden hair, and her right hand formed a fist that rested against her chin. Morning light flooded in through the window and lit her face.

'_How __angelic __you __are __at __times_,' thought Kate momentarily, before considering starting another letter to Emma's mother. She approached the desk, but upon spotting the newspaper reporting Alfred Snell's trial date, she instead continued her pace back and forth across the room.

"You'll wear the rug to tatters. What _are _you about?" asked Emma sitting up and yawning.

"I'm concerned that the arsonist will come to find us." She chewed her bottom lip. "We were witness to his crime, remember." Kate checked the window again before sitting on the bed to hold Emma's hands. "I think we should return home."

"What? No. Don't you feel it more than ever?"

"Feel what?" she replied, nervously dropping Emma's grasp.

"The urge." Emma nodded.

"Urge?" Kate swallowed.

"To carry on. To solve this mystery."

"There is no _mystery_; just a set of foolish people who break laws and bend the rules."

Emma chose to ignore Kate's outburst, instead swinging herself out of bed to pour water from a jug into a basin. "You said that there was something off... at the Brookes' house."

Kate tapped at her lips. "Mm? Oh. Yes. Just the broken heart explanation; it's such an odd thing to say. It irked me greatly. One might assume they were covering something larger. Perhaps the girl committed suicide." She sighed, dejected. "It is of little consequence."

"Someone will know who their doctor is. We could ask cousin Sarah to run -"

"Your cousin?" said Kate, aghast. "Oh my lord, I thought Sarah was the char! I gave her a pair of ripped gloves to repair."

"Oh no! She'll have sold them," Emma said with a straight face, pointing her toothbrush dramatically in Kate's direction.

"What?" Kate exclaimed, still feeling embarrassed about the jealousies she had suffered over one of Emma's kin.

"I'm kidding. I'm not from a family of criminals, you know," she smirked, with her free hand on her hip.

"Your sense of humour is criminal."

Emma extended her wrists towards Kate. "Lock me up m'lud. I dones bad jokes and caused a terrible mischief."

"Go on, hop to it. Ask your _cousin_ to go to the shambles and make inquiries. Perhaps _Peg _will know," Kate derided.

* * *

"It is, alas, most common in this day and age," Doctor St. John explained after supper. "The shame that these girls suffer throws them into the path of danger. The stakes are too high for unmarried women. Sullied by fornication, pregnancy out of wedlock. They find themselves foolish, desperate and all too easily are they taken advantage of."

"She had a child aborted?" asked Kate, her palm clasped across her mouth.

"This is what Sarah discovered, yes. There are men of ill-repute who advertise their services. They flaunt the 'Offences Against The Person' act and claim to aid these poor women. Nine times out of ten they do the deed, take the money and run. The life of the girl hangs in the balance. Fever, sepsis, blood loss and often death follow. The family may never know or suspect what has happened."

"That's so sad," Emma's head sank. "Life is so precious. So easily lost." Kate's eyes flickered in her direction.

"I believe the family knew," said Kate. "She was a very young girl; she wouldn't have known where to look or whom to approach, apart from her mother."

"It happens. But I think it unlikely that you would be able to talk them into providing the name of the man. Their reputation is at stake. You're not simply asking for a name, but for an admission of guilt. I doubt they would bear the ignominy."

* * *

"I suspect the trial will be a short one. Juries are frequently far too keen to convict." Kate sat by the small fire in their bedroom, shaken by their discussion earlier that evening. She took a poker to the grate and jabbed under the coals angrily.

"Time is running out." Emma tugged at her waistband, unbuttoning the side a little to allow her to breathe without agitating her still-healing scar.

"I couldn't possibly even imagine how Alfred is feeling." Kate rose to unfold a set of clean linen piled high in a basket.

"Yes, but I mean in regard to your decision."

"Decision?"

"You know perfectly well to what I'm referring." Emma watched Kate tuck the crisp white sheet under a mattress to form a perfectly neat corner. "Hang on. How and _when_did you learn to put linen on a bed?"

"I pay attention."

Emma folded her arms. "I don't see why."

"That's because you'd be quite content sleeping lain like a saddle bag slung across the back of a horse. That is, providing that someone fed you come morning."

"Fair point." Emma sucked on her bottom lip. "So... after the trial, will you leave?"

"Well if this -" she indicated the room with disdain "- is to be my future should I go against my parents' wishes, then I'm not thoroughly enthused about the situation, no."

"I don't think the notion bothers you that much. You've adapted to life here." Emma held up a pillow, which had been perfectly encased, and looked at it with intent curiosity before tossing it to one side. "Just as leaving _apparently _gives you no cause for alarm."

Kate's brow furrowed and her jaw clenched. "It is true that I am torn."

"So what is your decision? We can't keep dancing around like this forever." Emma waved her hands in the air.

"I don't feel able to make a decision. I simply don't have an answer I can stand by," said Kate, still busying herself unnecessarily.

"Because of the strength of your feelings for me." A statement, not a question. Emma's eyelashes fluttered and she stepped closer.

Kate ran her hand over her forehead. "I feel nothing more for you than I do any friend," she replied, frustration building. This was not a subject she had wanted to cover. Not now. Truth be told, not ever.

"You don't think I know, Kate?" Emma frowned deeply. The facts seemed as plain as day to her. "I've felt your looks, your hot gazes, seen the desire in your eyes. Felt your hands on my body in the night."

"Don't -" Kate's muscles tensed and her breathing became laboured, panic clear set in her eyes.

"And I _know _that you've seen it in me too. In my eyes. In my reception to your touch." Emma's look softened as she reached forward to place a hand forcefully on Kate's well-clad midriff. "What do you feel? Tell me. Stop thinking with your head and start feeling." She pressed hard at Kate's upper abdomen and looked menacingly into her eyes.

"My regard for you -" Kate began.

"_Our_ regard for _each __other_," Emma corrected, her expression carrying an angry frown.

"Is wrong."

"Footle."

"You can't just 'footle' this away. It's not nonsense. Perhaps we should separate. I _should _leave the country," Kate insisted with the shake of her hand.

"If you separate us then more fool you, Kate."

"You are eighteen; you don't know what you want," she retorted abruptly.

"I know what I want. Perhaps I don't know what I need, but I _definitely _know what I want. And you can't deny that you want the same." Emma shook her head. "Something inside you is wound so tight that you might never allow yourself to feel anything. How might I even attempt to unravel the tangled knot that keeps you from me?" She slid her hand down to Kate's waist, only to have it grasped painfully tight about the fingers. Finally, she was forced to snatch her hand away.

Kate's reply was slow and sure. "I am like every other woman; it is you that is loose. To unwind is to allow a trap to form; a noose with which one might hang one's self. You kid yourself that such freedoms exist."

"I understand that my being a woman is a source of perturbation for you -"

"Source of perturbation?" Kate interrupted loudly. "Perturbation?" she uttered, even more incredulously than before. "I don't think you understand; your womanhood is a _complete _barrier. This is absurd." Kate's hands fell to her sides in a gesture of futility before they rose again to point and wave aggressively. "Any relations... with you, with any female, would be entirely unjustifiable. How could you even contemplate such a thing?"

"You make me feel wicked." Emma drew her arms across her stomach.

"You should," Kate spat before turning away to hold her face in her hands. Emma rocked back in shock. "I apologise. I didn't intend to..." She licked her lips delicately, sighing raggedly, eyelids fluttering. "We must face that this unnatural condition... it is merely a folly, brought on b- by current stresses. I dearly care for you, in a sisterly fashion, and that has become... confused." She perked up a little as she turned back, nodding to herself. "That is all." Smiling weakly, she added: "A confusion where we seek comfort from each other due to familiarity and natural adoration." She held her head high, adding: "There," as if to indicate the problem fathomed.

Emma's throat tightened. She understood Kate's desire to be dignified and right, but that wasn't her own way. Fully intending to pull the rug from under Kate's feet, she whispered: "Then you don't wish to be close to me?" She stepped closer, intending for Kate to realise her seriousness; to gaze directly into her eyes and seek the real answer to her questions. "To kiss me as a lover would?"

Kate sneered, her lips twisting as she moved backwards towards the door, but Emma followed undeterred. Despite feeling uncomfortable, Kate found that she could not divert her look from Emma's strong, powerful and probing gaze. She bit her bottom lip to suppress the visible shuddering. Unable to deny, she continued with her prior analysis. "It is a fever. I have a fever for you." She gave a half-hearted and tired shrug, tears forming in her eyes.

"Here and now," Emma began. "If there were _nothing _outside these four walls, what then would you feel? If there were no society for which to be upstanding, no person to judge us. What then?" Emma placed her hands either side of Kate's head, palming her ears and so blocking the noises of raucous drunken friends kicking their way down the street, of the couple arguing in the next house, of the vibrations of children running up and down the rickety wooden stairs. Kate passed a hand tremulously over Emma's forearm.

Then Emma saw it: a brief but distinct flicker in Kate's unwavering stoicism; a sudden fervour which made Kate inhale then exhale sharply with agitation. Emma seized the opportunity and pulled Kate's mouth close to her own. Their lips barely formed a small chaste kiss before Kate pushed away. Eyes which once shone green and powerful were now grey, vague and full of regret.

"Please. Please... leave the room." Kate's hands shook with a quiet fury. Emma stood quite still, her normally blushed skin becoming sallowed. Kate brought her hand up and placed her fingers under Emma's chin, her thumb forcefully pressing the area beneath Emma's bottom lip. "I cannot have you near me. I require you to leave," she uttered in a quiet hiss. "Now!" she followed with a shout.

Emma's expectant expression broke and her face crumpled as she turned and left the room. The door clicked soundly behind her.

With knuckles whitening on the clenched fists at her sides, Kate settled at the edge of her bed, the empty coldness in her lungs forcing strained sobs to rise to her throat. Lips pressed inward, eyes clenched shut, neck strained and jaw tight, she attempted to seize control of her wayward body. Her over-tight stays forced the shudders at her abdomen to rise to her chest, as regular as a heartbeat.


	7. Cogs in the Works

Lower lip trembling, Emma's hand slipped from the brass knob. Leaning forward, she pressed her palms and forehead to the door. The air that passed between her lips tasted bitter, and her face twisted into one of repulsion. What little dignity she ever cared to carry slipped from her as she sank to her knees, cheek slumped against white, painted wood. Poised to slap the door in anger, she held her hand steady, before changing her mind and cupping her palm to her face, fingers pressing lightly at her eye. Seeking comfort in the shadows, she crawled over to the corner farthest from the light of the wall-mounted gas lamp.

"Have you been naughty, Miss?" came a small, delicate voice from the stairs. Two sets of eyes peered through the darkness at her.

Like a naughty child was exactly how she felt; banished from the room for a flippant remark or careless action. "Who's there?" she asked, less cheerily than she might usually have. "Come here. Keep me company for a while," she called, pressing tears away from her stinging eyes.

A boy, no more than five years old, and a girl, perhaps six or so, emerged into the lamp light. Their hands were caked in chalk from the drawings they had been scratching onto the floorboards. The young tatterdemalions' names, Emma found, were Maurice - better known as Maury - and Elizabeth, also known as Bessie. Apparently they belonged to a neighbour, who often left the children with Matilda if she had callers of a not-so-gentlemanly variety.

"I may have been naughty, but I cannot really say for certain," Emma answered Maury's question, looking down and playing with her hands.

"You should know, Miss, because you would feel bad. Do you feel bad?" he asked, while Bessie sat cross-legged at Emma's feet and twisted the lace of Emma's skirt in her tiny grasping hands.

"I don't, but I believe I made someone else feel bad because I kissed them when they didn't wish to be kissed."

"Kisses aren't bad, Miss." The round-faced boy pressed his fist heavily on her shoulder to steady himself as he leant in and pressed a messy, chalky kiss next to her ear. "'Specially not from a lady."

She held his cheek and smiled directly at him, tears in her eyes. Looking over at Bessie, she noted with a fond sadness the similarity to a younger sibling lost to the Scribbins family. First withdrawing her notebook and placing it on her lap, Emma then dug deep into her pocket and pulled out a few toffees; they were greeted immediately by hungry, greedy hands.

"What's in there?" Bessie asked, her speech muffled by stuck teeth.

Emma flapped open the notebook. "I make notes, about people, about things I see." She lowered her voice to an excitement-inspiring hush. "I'm solving a mystery."

"What's that?" This time the girl pressed her finger to a particular page. It stuck briefly, leaving a yellow smudge.

"It's sketch of a gravestone," Emma replied flatly.

"I like it." Bessie forced her way between Emma's arm and waist, like a baby bird in a nest. "The flowers are pretty."

"Draw another," Maury insisted, taking Bessie's previous position at Emma's feet and folding the paper over to a blank page. "Here." An outstretched palm revealed a clump of worn chalk.

"I have a pencil," Emma said, holding it aloft and smiling. "Now. What might I draw for you?"

* * *

Morning arrived and Kate allowed Emma access to their room in order to wash and dress. There was a notable air of tension between them. Kate insisted on keeping an arm's length of distance from Emma at all times: either circling her at a measured radius, or finding furniture to find protection behind. At times of near-nakedness, she took her eyes to the window and glared harshly at the street below, hands in firm fists and rigid upon the sill. She had vowed to herself to view the previous night's incident as transient and therefore dismissible in the entirety. This would not be the end of their friendship.

"I hope you won't ban me from the room again. Sarah kicks in the night and her bed is as hard as the street itself," Emma said, rubbing at the small of her back as she pulled on her final layers.

"I trust you didn't say why..." Kate began as she turned, a tightness gripping her jaw, a coldness in her stare and an apple cart in her abdomen threatening to upset.

Emma's intentions were just as clear in her mind, but they were completely opposite in nature. From her vantage point she saw a confounded Kate, a rattled Kate; a woman whose morals had been challenged. Morals that Emma believed were already in doubt. She raised an eyebrow and pouted. "I said you were snoring."

Kate looked relieved, if slightly put out at the stertorous implication. "_If _you behave and mention nothing, then you may stay."

"I shall be your companion, nothing more." Emma leant over, grasped Kate by the shoulder and planted a slow, almost teasing, kiss upon her cheek. She watched as Kate closed her eyes and placed her hand on Emma's own.

"Please do not make this difficult for me," Kate sharply requested with a scowl, moving to grasp Emma's wrist. "I forgive you for making a fool of yourself but we cannot go back to our previous ways."

"You never minded before." Their eyes locked and Emma found herself silently begging for Kate to break.

"I presumed my affections to be unrequited," Kate explained slowly. "I could do as I pleased and never fear reciprocation. You could kiss me, I could hold you, watch you, and the guilty pleasure was all my own. My own concern. Do not let this get the better of me, Emma." She would only be able to utter the request once, and so she prayed it would be heard and understood.

"Why do you presume this is any easier for me than it is for you?"

"Perhaps you reflect my feelings because you feel obliged." Kate pushed Emma's hand away.

"It's not a lie. No one would purposefully want to feel this way. I can't sleep. I can barely put two thoughts together." Emma frowned, a quirk at the corner of her mouth, one eye squinting like she was expecting a slap to the cheek.

The flattery of causing such reactions in a person, in any person, caused Kate to blush and her heart felt a rush as it began to palpitate. "You are skittish," she spat, denial no longer an option. "You'll soon have your eye on another and I'll be... forgot." Kate stumbled over the last word, her throat having tightened so such an extent, that it was restricting her already emotion-weakened speech.

Emma narrowed her eyes and shook her head frantically. "No," she demanded. "I..." Unable to make words form a point, her posture began to verge on the angry. "You cannot dictate whether or not I have feelings for you. If you would only just let me -"

"There is no _just_; there is no _only_." Kate turned away and tried to sigh away the funk caused by fear and desire. "Now let's put this ghastly back street abortionist behind bars and say _no _more about it."

* * *

Emma briskly swung open the front door and stepped out. "Blimey, the fog is so thick today you could practically rip bits off and chew it," she said, attempting to look out for carts and cars as the women dashed crossed the street. "Two females engaging in acts of love is not illegal, you know," she blurted with a pout, bearing little regard for the people passing by. "Not really approved of or encouraged but..." Emma squinted. She was hell bent on reminding Kate at every turn, regardless of any reaction she might receive. However, Kate covered her mouth, bit her tongue and refused to respond. She almost considered advancing her pace to a trot so that Emma would look like she was walking alone. Instead, she hung back, attempting to be completely immersed by the smog. "Attitudes change," Emma continued unabated. "Twenty years gone it was practically legal to hurt a child; you'd never consider that acceptable." Emma stopped in her tracks so that Kate would be forced catch up.

"No, of course not, but..." Kate trailed off in a hushed whisper, opening and closing her hand in front her face like she was grappling for the correct word.

"How can you so easily equate wickedness with what we feel? This would not hurt anyone."

"I... The bible -"

"Oh come off it, now, Kate; I have seen you in church and you no more sing hymns with vigor than I say prayers with good grace."

"The law dictates that men must -"

Emma looked triumphant, almost dancing on the spot. "Ah, but, I'm _not _a man."

On this matter, Kate felt she could be quite clear. "That, Emma, is _precisely _the issue."

* * *

Mrs Brookes sat by the window of her sitting room on a rickety chair. The place was quite changed since their last visit: table and rug gone, and only one window was dressed by a single bare-threaded curtain. Two daughters departed, and the father bed-ridden with grief, there was little to get by on in this household. The butcher shop remained shut, and would do so until the court case was closed. "Have you come about my second youngest girl?" The mistress of the house coughed abruptly in order to stop Emma's eyes scanning their surroundings. "She's eleven and would make a fine replacement for my Millicent in your household." The Brookes children could be seen peering through from the kitchen. They were clearly not as enthused about the idea; their teeth flashing through lip-curling sneers.

Kate stepped forward to reply. "No, in fact Ardmoore Grange is soon to change hands. However, I will put forward your daughter for the new tenants' staff."

"Much obliged." Mrs Brookes' expression remained the same after every utterance. "How, then, may I be of assistance?"

"In the interest of saving future girls... I... we..." Emma tried to find the words.

Kate cut in. "It would be very useful for us to ascertain whether Enid was with child before she -"

Mrs Brookes' darkly-hooded eyes drew wide, with emotion finally manifesting. "Get out of my house," she spat, barely able to draw breath through her disgust at the accusation. "How... _dare _you attempt to defame my family like this." She stood and pointed towards the hallway, rushing at them like they were vermin.

Literally pushed out of the back door by a broom, Emma and Kate stood flustered. "By that reaction, I'm assuming we were correct in our assumptions," said Kate as she pushed a loose lock of hair back into a clasp.

"That was a slightly embarrassing... uh..." Emma paused and looked skyward. "What's that word that makes me think of running against the clock but isn't, and is something to do with this situation?"

"Contretemps?" Kate smiled, then winced as she looked back at Mrs Brookes who, from behind the window, glared menacingly at them. She grabbed Emma and dragged her out of sight.

"Precisely!"

"Who needs Edward Lear when I have you to make utter nonsense of the world we live in?" Kate whispered.

Emma pulled her skirts out to the side and bowed in mock pride. "If they won't admit it -" she pointed back to the house "- then there's nothing else we can do," she sighed, her jacket catching on the thick privet as they headed towards the gate.

The youngest Brookes girl appeared from the side passage and twirled on the spot, indirectly seeking attention. Her long-held tongue tickled with words, ones which she almost at once began to spout. "I don't think it was right what he done. That man who tret Enid. He made her ill," she seemed to tell the air in a sing-song voice. The sentence was almost part of a skipping game, each syllable uttered with a shoe tap. The truth burned in her chest. She wanted that feeling out.

Kate looked to Emma, who approached and crouched to the girl's level. "We'd like to tell the police, little one, what the nasty man did. But we won't say who told us. Do you understand?"

The girl nodded and tapped her shoe on the hard ground again, tossing small pebbles here and there. "I didn't like his face; it was all twisted and mean-looking." She grimaced, her tiny brow knitting as she remembered his face looking down on her, patting her head and smiling sinisterly.

"Do you remember the twisty-faced man's name?" asked Emma. The child nodded and explained all she had seen, from her perspective. The message was rather garbled, but almost certainly damning. "Thank you for telling us the truth. It was a very honest, good and brave thing to do. Here -" Emma grinned as she put a tuppence in the child's hand "- don't spend it all on sweets." She lowered her voice to a hush. "Unless you really want to."

"And don't engage in lewd acts before marriage," Kate added as the girl ran off. "It might save your life as well as your dignity."

"Not sure that was absolutely necessary." Emma looked at her companion and almost laughed.

"Never too young for education."

* * *

"See, I told you so: all gnarled-looking." Emma pointed at the wizen-featured man, who was being cuffed and pushed into the back of a police cart. "A proper hang-gallows look about that one."

The name Phillip Jones had taken some fathoming from the Brookes girl's pronunciation of the offender's name as Fillet Bones; little more could be expected from the child considering her father's occupation. The given name was an actually an assumed one, but the man had foolishly lodged at a house under it and the police quickly tracked him down. Born Laurence Stowick, he was a man of notoriety and wanted in London on three counts of medical negligence.

Sergeant Gallimore approached Kate and Emma, a gleeful glint in his eye. "All done. Stowick was carrying his, er, tools, whatnots and stuff on him. He won't stand a chance in court." He tipped his hat. "Many thanks for your assistance in this matter." He glanced to the floor as something caught his attention. "Yours, madam?" He picked up a gold fobwatch from the ground and offered it by its chain to Kate.

"Why would you assume I would carry..." Kate tailed off. "Oh." She watched it swing, a quizzical expression on her face. "May I?" He shrugged and handed it over. "Silly of me, yes, I'd quite forgotten I had it about my person."

"Not a problem, Miss." He nodded proudly as he wedged his hat back onto his blocky head. "I'll get this one back to the station. Be careful not to lose the watch again; looks to be worth a few bob."

"Yes, I shall. Thank you, Sergeant." Kate smiled as the policemen dragged away Stowick, but once they were out of sight, her knees gave way and Emma was forced to guide her to a park bench.

"Kate? What's wrong? Was it too overwhelming? I thought it was _exciting_. You pretending the pocket watch was _yours_... I mean, my heart was in my throat when you agreed and took it. Ingenious, actually. It must have been on him and he dropped it when the police accosted him." Emma's eyes sparkled. "Now if only we can work out to whom it belongs, we can return it." Instead of replying, Kate merely pinched the clasp on the side of the watch, her eyes constantly on Emma, awaiting her reaction. "Why..." It flipped open and there - on the inside of the gold lid - was a name. Emma's mouth fell agog. "Oh, crumbs, Kate. I... what do we do now?"

"Honestly?" Kate snapped shut the lid of the watch she had known for many years. In her mind's eye, she could still read the neatly inscribed text as clear as day. The owner was a well-respected gentleman of Middleford: Jonathan A. Ashurst. Otherwise known as Kate's own step father. "I have absolutely no idea."


	8. Denying The Evidential

Kate closed her eyes, wrapped the chain around her finger and raised the gold watch to her ear. The sound of ticking once gave her a sense of satisfaction: a reminder of the beautiful order of life. One need only wind a watch and it would set the works turning. So simple. Everything felt changed. Her own step-father now under her suspicion. In whom, if anyone, could she trust now? Kate pushed the watch into her waistcoat pocket and looked to her left. Emma was seated beside her, chewing her bottom lip nervously as her knee joggled tensely beneath her skirts. Perhaps one person alone. Perhaps.

Kate and Emma found themselves glancing around the room they had been granted for their meeting: grim, windowless walls stared back at them. A light behind them painted their shadows along the north wall beyond. Together, they stared at their quaint silhouettes. Emma raised her hands, twirling them in the air and then making a bird by interlocking her thumbs. Kate didn't even have the mind to scold her for her silliness. Kate's own upbringing was now in question: was she the daughter of a murderer? Was her childhood worth anything? Who was she to look down on anyone? Where do you stand when you feel your foundations slipping from beneath your feet?

Emma's ombromanie continued as she flew her bird down to Kate's shoulder, where it settled to a fluttering stop. "I'm sure it will be someone else," she assured with a small pat of now unsplayed fingertips.

"My father's watch, pardon the pun, winds up in possession of someone who _helps_ young girls. One who _helped_ a particular girl whom he has supposedly never met? And one who is the sister of his very own and very much _dead _employee? It is too much. Logic decrees that Millicent, who was never permitted into my father's rooms, was given the watch. Was it he who gave it to her? Did he ascertain the grisly purpose for which it was used as currency? Did he bring her to her end?" Words stuck like dry crusts in her throat. "What if Father was one to pay Stowick for his services? What then does that mean for his reputation? Who was he to the Brookes family?"

"You're over-thinking. Honestly, I -"

Kate cut her off, sweeping away her words like a cobweb into a darkened corner. "And now this poor young boy stands trial for a murder, which I do _not _believe he committed!" she exclaimed.

* * *

They had waited, but thankfully not in vain, for at least thirty minutes, before they were greeted with a solemn, pale face. "There must be _something _you remember," Kate said, extending her hands across the table towards his frail, hunched-over frame. This room, with its cold, hard floor, bare walls and no natural light, was a veritable concert hall compared to the cell in which Alfred has been incarcerated these past weeks.

He moved awkwardly in his seat and rubbed at his face vigorously. When speech came, it was sluggish and the diction was poor, as if he had a swollen tongue. "I di'n't mean to do it."

Kate shook her head with frustrated confusion and licked her lips. "We don't believe you killed her. We truly don't. Ms Scribbins and I have been over it a hundred times and something doesn't add up. We've even spoken to locals who saw you that night; you were nowhere near the house. If you're protecting someone, even if that person is a figure of authority..." Words escaped her. What she really intended to infer was that Alfred had a connection to her father, but she didn't wish to push the matter.

Alfred shook his head, his dirty fingernails pulling at the grazed, grit-dusted skin on his forearm. "I ain't protecting no one. I'd had too much to drink, I was seen on the back of a cart goin', so I must've done it. It's plain. To think that Gerry could have hung for sommat I did." Tears welled in his blood-shot eyes and his Adam's apple bobbed visibly beneath his unshaven chin.

"You know Gerald Clement... personally?" Emma leaned across the table.

"He used to let me wait for Mil' at the back door. Sometimes we'd share a smoke." He shrugged and pushed his thumb along a groove in the table's underside.

Kate looked over at Emma with a raised eyebrow of suspicion. "Was it Gerald who told the police you were on the cart?"

"No... he's no snitch. It were... that were my employer."

Emma held up her notebook and flicked through it frantically. She had no notes regarding the kind of work Alfred was involved in. "And who is that, Alf?"

"Mr Brookes the butcher, o'course."

* * *

Emma squinted at the black and white print and delicately traced her finger over the photograph. The line where the garrotte had sliced at Millie's throat appeared like a tarred streak. Tears welled in Emma's eyes. "Who killed you, Millie?" she asked under her breath. "Do you feel sorry?" she asked Kate, who was staring at the board as a whole and marvelling at the detail. No response. "Kate? Do you feel guilty?"

"Sorry, I assumed you were still addressing the corpse," Kate muttered. "Why on earth should I feel sorry?"

"Because she was in our service and it took her death for us to show any kind of interest in her."

"I try not to think on it," she replied nonchalantly, but it only made Emma more aware of how much Kate hid from her own feelings and fears. Kate turned swiftly as she spotted an opening door. "Oh! Inspector Sullivan!" Kate called suddenly as the inspector emerged from his office. Seeing he was a wanted man, he very nearly turned and closed the door again. Begrudgingly, he stepped out and pointed towards the exit as an indicator of his intent not to wait. "Inspector," she called insistently, "I must insist that you interrogate that terrible false surgeon. Request the location of his whereabouts the night of Millicent Brookes' murder. It is imperative." Kate chased Sullivan down the glazed-brick corridor, Emma following at a slower, less enthusiastic pace. "I believe," a cough echoed behind her, "_we_ believe, he blackmailed Millie. That they made some sort of agreement to keep the abortion a clandestine affair. He became greedy and she resorted to... acquiring a pocket watch with which she could pay him for his dastardly services." She paused as they pushed through a heavy oak door. "But he must have returned to her; demanded more. Then, when she refused, he killed her." She was fast losing her breath. "Mr Brookes must know, must suspect, and that's why he's pointed the finger squarely at Alfred Snell. A scapegoat, if you will. A diversion. Mr Brookes has confined himself to his bed for the time being; do you see why? Guilt, Inspector. Guilt!" They pushed through another set of double doors. "Do you see? You _must _find out where that brute Stowick was."

Sullivan came to an abrupt stop and turned toward them with hands raised in a gesture of surrender. "This is not a matter for -"

"Women?" asked Emma, hands on hips, a tirade prepared and ready to flood forth.

"The general public," he corrected, narrowing his eyes. "Look here, ladies. I don't want it to be the Snell lad, but I can't untangle him from this."

Kate tried again. "But Stowick -"

"_Will _face charges. But not for Millicent's death. I'm sorry. I wish it _were _him." His look was definitely one of sorrow, this softer side slipping through his hardened façade. "The night in question, he was in Middleford Hospital receiving treatment for a venereal disease. Several nurses and a doctor were present."

"I hope his bloody instrument falls off," Emma grumbled under her breath.

"Will he go to trial for Enid's death?" asked Kate, her manner now demure.

"I highly doubt the Brookes family will testify, do you?" he asked with a raised eyebrow of doubt.

Kate pursed her lips and pulled out the fobwatch. With a sigh, she handed it over. "Then you had better have this. It belongs to my step-father. Before you ask, I have no idea how it came to be involved in this mess."

"I can't say the mention of a watch in your... speculation... slipped my attention. Am I to presume it was in the possession of Mr Stowick?" He took it from her and let it dangle by its chain. Flipping open the lid, he noted the name inside and raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Your man, Gallimore, thought I had dropped it, presumably because it seemed a little too valuable to have belonged to a backstreet surgeon. I apologise for not producing it sooner; I didn't fancy the Ashurst family name being pushed any further into the mud, but if it will help, then please use it."

"Thank you. Let's hope it makes a difference." He bowed his head reverently then pouted as he mulled the situation over. "Now, please. Leave this case be. The murder trial begins tomorrow and the jury will make the ultimate decision."

"I cannot promise that we won't take an interest," Kate stated as plainly as she could.

"On your own heads be it." He nodded and extended his hand for Kate to shake. In his small way, it was his way of bestowing respect for her efforts.

Kate and Emma bid the police officers good day and approached the door. However, with seconds to spare, Sullivan suddenly called out: "Miss Scribbins. May I have word... alone?" Emma looked to Kate, who shrugged, secretly disquieted. Kate watched their inaudible exchange from afar. "Miss Scribbins," he said, as Emma trotted towards him.

"Emma," she nodded in encouragement.

His aloof demeanour dropped and he smiled. "Emma." Clearing his throat, he pushed his hands deep into his trouser pockets. "Might I, post-trial, be permitted to pay you a visit?"

"Of course; you're a policeman. I could hardly stop you," she laughed and patted his elbow jovially.

He rubbed his jaw. "I did, in fact, mean to imply that I would like to be considered as a worthy gentleman to walk out with. Unless, that is, you already have a chap of your own?"

"Oh!" Her large eyes looked startled. "Well, I am extremely flattered, Inspector Sullivan." She looked over at Kate, who was tapping her shoe impatiently, a scowl on her face. Images of a life alone swept through Emma's mind. Uncertainly, she gave her reply: "That sounds wonderful. I'd be honoured."

Graciously, he stepped back and bowed. "I look forward to it."

* * *

"This room is far too compact. I can't bear to be stifled like this." Kate worried at her sleeves and sat down on the edge of her bed. "I don't suppose we could go for another stroll?" Exhaling with agitation, she glanced at the window and noted how dark the night was. "Perhaps not." With the darkness came the kind of quietness that allowed thoughts to wander. She required focus and distraction, but an ordered mind seemed presently intangible.

"Shush. I'm thinking." Emma frowned, the end of a pencil between her teeth. "The watch. Are we sure Millie didn't steal it? Who's to say she didn't sneak about in the night?"

"Or perhaps the watch was being cleaned below stairs?" Kate waved a hand dismissively at her own suggestion. "It doesn't matter anyhow." They could make a thousand guesses, but it didn't make any of them provable. So many paths to Millie's death. "Perhaps, instead, we should look again to Clement."

"Clement?" Emma's lip curled in surprise, but she didn't look up. Feverishly, she scanned the notes and large diagrams that were spread clumsily across her knees.

"As the inspector said, he has a record for petty theft. Perhaps he stole the watch and, in turn, Millie stole it from him to pay Stowick."

"And when he found out, he killed her." Emma's eyes went wide with realisation.

"His alibi came quite late, didn't it? And was provided by his sister Beatrice?" Kate rubbed at her cheek and allowed herself a moment's glance at the firelight reflected across Emma's face.

"You think she was telling fibs?"

Kate swallowed and nodded as she watched Emma reach under her seat to pull up and shuffle closer to the fire, papers falling left and right. "Possible. To protect her brother. She's unmarried, is she not? And a maid servant to -" Kate paced over to help gather the scraps and place them back in Emma's lap "- Lady Melissa Brenning, or somesuch." She paused as she rose and walked away. With a cough, she continued: "Why was she at the house? I never saw her. Would she really be travelling to such a remote location so late at night?" Kate's heart rose and sank as Emma sat up to let down her hair and comb her fingers through the length of it. "Too late to bring anything to court, anyhow." Kate moved towards the door, reaching for the handle.

Emma appeared behind her. "And far too late to visit anyone," she susurrated.

"Just looking for a breath of fresh air," Kate explained feebly, still not turning around.

"Looking to be away from me," Emma exhaled slowly. Her patience was being tested to its limits; not that she'd ever been thoroughly imbued with the virtue anyway.

"I am never away from you." The sentence revealed more than she intended. Without thought, she let a little honesty pour forth. "You simmer at the back of my mind like a migraine; always there. I can so rarely see past you."

"When you're in Ceylon, I'll fade. I for one shan't worry, especially now I have a potential suitor," Emma teased intentionally. "So handsome, what a gentleman, so strong and brave," she baited.

Kate ground her teeth. "Who?"

"Inspector Sullivan, of course." She spoke haughtily, in a manner replicating Kate's own demeanour and mode of speech. "Not only is he the perfect paradigm for a superior policeman -"

"Intractable, overly scrupulous and acerbic?" Kate derided with a sneer.

"I think you'll find you just described yourself, there," Emma retorted before continuing to extoll the wonders of the inspector. "But Mr Sullivan is a most handsome gent to boot," she over enthused. "He wishes to make love to me, and I fully intend to let him," she gleefully announced like a fanciful girl, an edge of spiteful intent seeping into her words.

"Yes, yes, cease this frankly saccharine lauding of the man." Kate's cheek twitched. "I'm sure he will make a worthy spouse. He will provide all the mystery and intrigue you require, and from the comfort of a sweet home." She bit down her disappointment and attempted to inject happiness into her voice. "I am pleased that you have someone you can be happy with." Her heavy-lidded eyes displayed a different sentiment, of this Kate was aware, and so she kept them fixed on the door handle.

"I'd rather that someone was you." Emma ran her fingertips down Kate's back and made her shiver.

Kate held onto the moment and luxuriated in the continuing touch. "You need more than this," she uttered, her stomach still fluttering.

"We had little more than this at the Grange. You and I both know that these rooms - despite the lack of fine furnishings and good opinion - are, for want of a more suitable word, _better_. This house may be smaller, but it is warmer. The company may not be high-class, but it is infinitely more pleasant and less austere. The atmosphere itself is umpteen times more welcoming." Emma felt as though she could spout comparisons all evening, but it all seemed useless as Kate's gaze was still firmly fixed on the door. "Besides, I don't give a hoot where I am, as long as I am with you."

"It will be easier with him. I promise." Kate pressed at the bridge of her nose, her sinuses tingling with impending tears. Jealousy pinched at her chest, like so many bees stinging her heart.

"But... but I don't know how _not _to want you!" Emma choked out, her frustration reaching its pinnacle.

Kate's forehead crumpled and she inhaled sharply. "Nor do I, but we must learn." She swallowed with difficulty and her head bobbed with a brief nod.

"Could you not grant me one single embrace? Even if it's to be my last?" Emma waited in vain. Taking the lack of response as a positive, she moved forward, reaching around Kate's front, pressing her cheek to the other woman's shoulder blade and splaying her fingers across her waistband. "Remember how firmly you held me when I was hurt?"

"You are a most infuriating, aggravating, and annoying woman. I..." Kate winced and closed her eyes as she felt Emma's cheek rub delicately at the nape of her neck. Sensation like a shock rang through her like a welcome jolt, and an uneasy breath ebbed from her throat. "Why do you insist on toying with my emotions?" Feeling weakened, Kate reached out and pressed one hand flat against the door to steady herself.

Emma worried at the side of her bottom lip with her teeth. "Because I can't help but listen to mine." Closing her arms in a tight circle, she hugged Kate close, dragging the tip of her nose behind Kate's ear, evoking gasps from her companion.

"You should not want me." Kate gritted her teeth and inhaled deeply through her nose. "It's highly illogical."

Emma pulled her arms back, but instead of letting go, she let her hands push upwards, rippling from bottom to top over the buttons of Kate's tight blouse. Once she had reached the neckline, she dragged back down again. "But I do want you, and it would be illogical to ignore that," she whispered sultrily.

Kate stepped forward and rested her right cheek against the door. The action pulled Emma forward and Kate became sandwiched tightly against the hard, painted wood. "I..." With her left hand, she reached behind her and pushed her fingers into Emma's loose hair. Kate sought to be almost immobilised by the closeness. "I suppose there is a scant chance you might be correct in your assumptions."

Emma leaned into the touch of Kate's fingertips in her hair as slim nails grazed across her scalp. Her eyes almost rolled back into her head as Kate tugged lightly on her locks. She moaned audibly at the tingle of sensation. "I can feel your heart through my chest; it's beating like a train," she breathed huskily.

"I can't slow it." A tear slipped down Kate's cheek, her chin shuddering.

"I don't wish you to." Emma was also weeping, but with nervous delight, and consequently dampening Kate's shoulder.

Kate exhaled deeply and raggedly. She licked her lips. Her head was about to make the leap to join her heart. "Nor do I." Quickly, she forced Emma away, but turned swiftly, her back slamming against the door of her own accord. Grasping desperately at Emma's waist, she tugged her close again and paused, their lips inches apart. Her line of sight never left Emma's slightly open mouth. It was as if she was waiting for permission. Emma's eyelashes fluttered as she angled her jaw forward invitingly. They descended towards an inept but passionate kiss. Lips, warm and wet, met in an almost panicked fashion. Rapid, frantic breathing reduced them to peppering kisses across each other's salt-streaked cheeks. They slowed to a stop, quite out of breath.

Inhaling and exhaling deeply, Emma raised a hand to Kate's forehead. Using the side of her thumb to press away a deep frown, she trailed her fingers tremulously over luscious pink lips. Leaning in, she sweetly nudged at them with her own. Kate was shaking so badly that she was barely able to keep herself standing. "Is this... I don't even know what I should feel." Kate was quite overcome by the heat in her body, by the feelings of faintness and strange stupefaction. She lolled against Emma and bit at her own lip. "We should sleep." Fear overwhelmed her and made her cautious. "It has been a very long day and we must be clear-headed for our attendance at the trial."

Emma looked at Kate curiously but understood the trepidation; she herself felt daunted by the initial touches of requited passion. Both felt ill-prepared to explore that which they had both once presumed a husband would teach. The novelty of a kiss felt enough for now; a gesture they could understand and justify. Emma drew back and looked deeply into Kate's eyes. She had but a few days before Kate's father would demand her decision; time enough. Slipping her fingers either side of Kate's jaw line and then down her throat, Emma unfastened the brooch beneath Kate's chin. Button by button, she gradually descended to Kate's waistband where she tugged the fabric loose. Obligingly, Kate unbuttoned her own cuffs and rid herself of the blouse. Steadily they undressed each other, helped one another into their nightwear, and, despite the heady, full-bodied want, they slept soundly and dreamt of the intimacy they both craved whole-heartedly.


	9. Contempt in Court

I can't believe it's been two months. Erk. Apologies. This is the penultimate part. I lost the plot (literally! I lost my notes!)

* * *

"I'd like to halt the case for the time being, your lordship. There has been..." The lawyer for the prosecution leaned over the clerk's desk and continued his request to Justice Kipling-Steel. "An _interesting _development that is pertinent to this case," he added in a quiet but audible tone. Hushed mutterings began amongst the attendees in the public gallery. Kate looked around with a look of distaste at the level of undignified excitement in the air, and rolled her eyes upon noticing one woman who was sporting a smug grin and crocheting an elaborate doily. By no means could the court be seen as a venue of comfort or warmth, but the general drama and theatre of it drew the dispossessed and listless masses through the heavy doors on a daily basis.

Emma leaned forward with her hands on her knees, keen in anticipation of a piece of new evidence capable of Alfred's exoneration. Dry-mouthed, she peered across the tiered bay-like seating towards the dour-looking judge. "Considering the grave nature of the case," the prosecutor continued, "and considering the likely outcome of this trial, we would like to bring forward the matter of another newly-discovered murder -" The crowd looked down at Alfred as he, quite visibly dumbstruck and confused, glanced up toward the gothic skylit ceiling and wordlessly prayed for mercy "- for which Mr Snell is, as of today, a suspect. As you can imagine, had the police discovered the new death a little sooner, it would have already comprised an extensive part of this case."

The now highly-disgruntled judge's eyes flicked towards the large clock at the back of the courtroom before he addressed the room and nodded to the clerk. "I suggest we adjourn and reconvene at one o'clock."

* * *

"I don't know about you but I feel like a good old soaking." Emma thumbed over her shoulder towards the 'Jolly Drayman' across the way.

Kate looked over at the grim building with contempt. "I suppose, given the day, the situation, and the frankly dismal outlook, I would be inclined to agree."

"A 'yes' would have done," Emma derided before trotting around the back of a tram and disappearing through the crowds.

"So would a slap," Kate muttered to the now empty space beside her. Resisting the urge to follow apace, she crossed the road, careful to mind the horse manure and street sellers before entering the public house. With trepidation, she glanced around, seeking her companion amidst the gathering of patrons. Attempting to slide past a few unsavoury ale guzzlers, she approached a quiet, dark corner and squinted through the haze of tobacco smoke. Emma was nowhere to be seen. Kate became worried. No matter how much she reassured herself, her internal instinct was to panic; a rush of fear drove her to swallow reflexively, her hand at her throat.

"Have you got sixpence?" A voice from behind came suddenly.

Kate jumped, let out a restrained yelp and reversed into a large bagatelle board, causing half the patrons to turn and stare.

"Bloody hell! That was a bit dramatic! Sorry that I'm broke, but my father makes his money in marmalade, not gold or silk," Emma protested with wide eyes.

"It's not that, you silly thing. You frightened me," an embarrassed Kate seethed under her breath. Taking Emma by the elbow, she led her through the bar's parlour and up to the counter. "Excuse me, barkeep," Kate called, impatiently tapping her fingers on the sticky, burnished surface. Rolling his eyes, the landlord cut short his conversation and sidled over to greet them, albeit with little enthusiasm. "Two gins," Kate requested, causing Emma to wrinkle her nose and pout. She had been expecting ale.

"Shilling," came the dispassionate response as two glasses were shunted indelicately over to them. Kate slid over two shiny coins and led Emma to a secluded, snug corner, away from the hubbub. "I see your _gallant swain _is over by the fire with his colleagues," she uttered indignantly.

"My whuh-?" Emma peered around the corner and spotted Inspector Sullivan. "Oh, him."

"_Him_, indeed. The one to whom you are _promised_," she half-mocked.

"Promised! Hardly." Emma rose from her seat and waved. "Mr Sullivan," she called above the raucous noise of heated conversation and laughter.

Kate looked appalled. "Sit down," she scolded, grasping Emma by the wrist.

As she did so, Emma looked down at Kate's tense knuckles and her eyes glazed over. Licking her lips, she exhaled gently as she let her line of sight rise up to Kate's mouth. The previous night had an almost dream-like quality to it. Every touch was a reminder, no matter how slight. "Have you thought -"

"Ladies!" Inspector Sullivan loomed over them. Swiftly, they pushed apart and craned their necks to look up at him. "May I?" He indicated a chair.

"Of course," Kate uttered hesitantly, forcing an inconsistently-held smile as she let go of Emma's arm.

"I see you kept your promise," he semi-laughed.

"Oh! I... pardon?" Kate looked perplexed.

"You did warn me that you'd attend the trial, and here you are." He raised his hands towards them. "I hope you're at least enjoying the verbal battle of court."

Kate forgot herself momentarily and blurted: "Pah!" She cringed and looked panicked. "Sorry, it's just... well, one can't really get into the drama of it when one feels so involved. I didn't intend to sound dismissive. It's just, frankly, a..." She sought the appropriate word.

"Bloody shambles," offered Emma.

"Well, yes, indeed." Kate chewed on the inside of her cheek and shifted on her seat awkwardly. "In my eyes, Alfred is being led down a path of assumed guilt. And he is the one assuming he is guilty!"

"I'm sorry you feel that way." The inspector nodded with a pout of consternation.

"So..." Emma looked expectantly at him. Kate narrowed her eyes, wondering exactly what information or sort of action she might be demanding from the man at their table. Even Sullivan looked momentarily bemused. Exasperated, Emma waved her hands before her encouragingly. "Who is this other murder victim?"

"Oh!" Kate and Sullivan said in unison.

"Yes, please tell." Kate turned her ear to him and waited.

Gallimore appeared at Sullivan's side and set a glass down heavily on the table before him, spilling froth across the lacquered wood. "Jesse Balcomb. Know him, do you?" he asked, discourteously dragging a stool over to join them. "You seem to know everyone else." He raised an eyebrow and sipped on his own drink. Kate and Emma looked at each other, seeking silent confirmation that they did not know the name. They shook their heads. "Yeah, well I don't suppose you'd be the sort for pawning your baubles and brooches, now would you?"

Emma, who had been roused by sudden excitement, looked at the gentlemen and with considerable vim, asked: "I don't suppose Jesse had a shop that burnt down, did he?"

The inspector nearly choked on his ale. "As a matter of fact -"

"Please tell us what happened to him." Emma leaned and bit the side of her lip. "Was he caught in the fire? Did they find his charcoaled body in the wreckage?"

"No, no. By the river. Killed in a similar fashion to Millicent Brookes." Sullivan scratched at his eyebrow and then crossed his arms. "How is it you even know of the fire?"

"We were there, weren't we Kate?" Emma tipped back her drink and indicated with her eyes that Sergeant Gallimore should visit the counter for refills. He did so with a mutter and a grumble.

"We did report the incident to one of your men, Inspector," Kate added, raising an eyebrow. "We had paid a visit to the property because young Alfred gave us the address..." She stopped and paused. "I suppose that's rather incriminating for the young boy."

"It would help the case if you testified to that fact. At present we have only a note found on the body that was written by Snell and addressed to the pawnbroker, reserving a ring and arranging to meet at the riverside." The inspector waved his hand in the air and yet again looked puzzled. "So you were at the Balcomb property when it was alight?"

"Nothing on at the opera?" asked Gallimore cheekily as he set down a tray of glasses.

"Ha. Ha." Emma rolled her eyes.

"Dr Watson and I were doing a little detective work of our own," Kate explained. "Alfred had informed us of the deal he had made for her to transport goods from a train to the pawnbrokers."

Emma looked displeased. "Why am I Watson?" she asked, moderately affronted.

"If you actually expect me to answer that, then an exposition as to why you are Watson and definitely not Holmes is absolutely unnecessary."

"I'm sorry, ladies, what is this business? Goods? A train?" Sullivan asked with a frown.

Kate sighed. "Alfred informed us, before he was arrested by your good selves, that he was advised to visit the broker to arrange for Millie to collect some sort of item from a train..." She looked at the inspector, his eyes still cloudy with confusion. "I'm sorry, I was assuming you'd have heard all this before from Alfred."

"No."

Emma puffed out her cheeks. "Makes him sound even more guilty, doesn't it?"

"Rather," Kate agreed. The case was becoming further sealed with every word. Her mind was turning. "I will testify if you wish, Inspector," she sighed. "Especially if it brings this matter to a shorter close." She sensed Emma's hot glare, but didn't turn to face her. Instead, she delicately took a sip from her drink, first cringing at the time-delivered rough and opaque state of the glass. "Did you ever happen to discover who committed the arson attack?"

"Not as yet," Sullivan said apologetically. "It could easily be attributed to a passing, dispossessed youth."

"In top-hole dress suit and homburg?" Emma shook her head and sucked on her bottom lip.

"Oh. Well, no matter, we shall apprehend the culprit at some juncture; I'm sure of it." He shrugged self-assuredly and smiled.

Kate became visibly disgruntled, diverting her attentions back to the murders. "How can you be so calm? So glib? It all seems excessively lazy in terms of police work. Especially when you have another suspect out there -" she pointed brusquely at the window "- who clearly held some sort of grudge against the deceased and, unlike Alfred - who was imprisoned in your care at the time - was free and able to set fire to Mr Balcomb's premises. Arrest them! Arrest them and charge them for Mr Balcomb's murder!"

"It seems a little defunct to set fire to a property _after_ the owner has been killed, does it not? Balcomb was last seen the day _before _Alfred was arrested."

"I... are you sure? Of the timing?" Kate began to look uncertain and moderately embarrassed."Yes, I suppose you would be."

"We are adequately sure. The body had been in the waters some considerable time."

Kate looked down at her hands, which were now clasped tightly on her lap. "Then I will definitely give evidence."

* * *

"On what grounds?" Kate near-shouted from her position in the witness booth.

"Insolence," the judge battled.

Kate became instantly piqued by the accusation. "I am _merely _insisting that the conversation myself and my companion had with the accused was in no way incriminating."

"Miss Ashurst."

"Yes, it could have easily been deemed damnable, however, to myself at the time it -"

"Miss _Ashurst_!"

"- all felt very innocent." Kate was never one to be cut short in her sentences.

"You are merely being a nuisance. The court does not require your bombastic, declamatory statements. Nor does it require a lady such as yourself to teach the bench how to suck eggs," the judge spat, rising in his seat, cheeks ruddy from frustration. "As requested before, please take her down," he valled to the bailiff, with a violent hand gesture cast carelessly towards Kate's stiff, angry frame. Her eyes darted left and right as she was escorted from the court. Up in the viewing area, Emma shaded her eyes from the glaring looks of those seated around her.

* * *

"Always the quiet ones. That's what they say." Mr Brookes, grey-faced and wan, rolled his jaw and pouted, words struggling to form on his tongue. "Wish I'd known he was a wrong'un. I'd have never let him near my girl." Closing his eyes, he tilted his head, holding back his burgeoning emotions. "That night, I saw him -" the corner of his mouth twitched "- saw him making his way to kill my little girl."

"What is your rationale for believing Alfred was to blame for this sorry death?" asked Alfred's defender.

"Well, it was late, gone fair dark, and I was washing down the block in my shop. I saw him stroll... I should say stagger by. I opened my door and called out, but he was talking to, uh, Mr Massey about a ride. He seemed to be drunk."

"A drunken man does not a murderer make, Mr Brookes. If that is all -"

"He said he'd wring her neck," Mr Brookes said abruptly. "I heard him, as he went past my shop, muttering he was. I swear." He looked down at the Bible positioned on the clerk's desk. "Swear. I just didn't say before because I was ashamed; ashamed that I didn't stop that cart. If I'd stopped that cart, my daughter would be alive now. It's a terrible burden on a man. A terrible burden, Sir." His eyes welled with tears.

* * *

"He was more pickled than them eggs they serve down the fried fish shop on Silver Street," Fred chuckled out cockily, the members of the gallery laughing along with him.

"Mr Massey, please remember that this is a serious matter." The defender scowled and crossed his arms over his chest indignantly.

"Look, I took pity on the bloke. What more do you want from me?" he sneered.

"For all intents and purposes, you assisted in taking Alfred to his destination; you had a part in this. Who is to say that you yourself did not collaborate or, indeed, encourage Alfred towards violence, perhaps for your own amusement. He was, after all, in a highly suggestible state."

"You're having a laugh," Fred snorted. "Me an accomplice? Blimey. Talk about penalties for simple kindnesses. If I walk an old woman across the street and she steps in horse muck, do I have to pay for replacement shoes?"

* * *

"Sorry, dea... I mean Sir... Sir?" Mrs Beechley stared with bemused, owl-like eyes, as she stood rigidly, clinging to the edge of the witness box, her fingernails scratching at worn varnish.

"How did you find young Millicent?" He rephrased his question after taking a large impatient breath.

"How?" she asked with a wince and frown. "That's my kitchen. I work there."

"Madam... allow me to try again. How did she look when you found her? What state and position was she in?"

"Dead, sir."

He sucked at his cheeks and breathed heavily through his nose. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"Oh, I see. Well... I didn't see her at first; I saw the tin of powdered sugar that'd come off the shelf and spread its, you know, dusted its contents across the floor like it was a Victoria Sponge, you know, like a even blanket of -"

"Fewer similes perhaps?" he interrupted.

She stuttered and coughed away her nerves. "Well, there she was, over in the corner, you know, laid on her back with her legs curled under her. I gave her a tap with my shoe and it was like nudging a sack of old..." She looked up and swallowed reflexively. "So I knelt down and lifted her up onto my lap, cradling her like a baby so I could brush the powder from her back. The dead need that kind of respect, my mother always said. Never want to go to heaven with dirty shoes, she said. Sorry, details only, I know." She seemed to be informing herself of the fact. "There was no blood, just, you know, like a bruised line across here -" she sliced her finger across her neck slowly "- and... and nothing behind the eyes. Nothing." She sighed and paused. "Then Gerald, Mr Clement, that is, came in from the gardens looking flushed, and sent for the master, Mr Ashurst, and they took over her care. Very rattled they were. As were we all."

* * *

"Well?" asked Kate.

Emma looked around the cold, damp, stone-walled cell and shook her head. "Guilty. To be hanged."

Kate pursed her lips and attempted to keep ahold of her rising emotion. "Who testified after my dismal attempt?"

"Um..." Emma slumped down beside Kate. "Mr Brookes; the landlord of The Rose and Crown; Fred Massey, who I'm pretty sure Mr Brookes paid to testify because he paid him several looks; and Mrs Beechley. Oh, and Inspector Sullivan. Um... that was it. "

"And Clement of course."

"No. Bit odd that." Emma shrugged. "He failed to be summoned. They went ahead regardless." She carefully dragged her finger over the back of Kate's wrist, tracing ticklish circles.

"So that's the end of it," Kate uttered softly, glancing around in an attempt to dwell neither on Alfred's soon-to-be demise nor on Emma's soft touch.

"Mm," Emma agreed solemnly, not daring to re-approach the subject of Kate's pending decision.

For a moment, they remained still, contemplative and silent. Emma's fingertips slipped their way down to Kate's knee. They both glanced down to its position as it glid backwards towards Kate's thigh. The time between their exhalations and inhalations grew steadily smaller as, for this quiet moment, warm and amatory feelings re-surged, pushing past any current distractions. Emma twisted her body and leaned in, her chest hard against Kate's arm, encouraging her to mirror the pose. She failed to do so, however; instead, Kate reached up and cupped Emma's cheek in her hand. Kate's gaze fluttered from Emma's bottom lip to her eyes. "Not here." Despite her own request, she leaned in, her body fighting against her will. She brought Emma's ear to her mouth, causing her companion to shudder from the unintentional titillation. "I fear -" she paused and swallowed.

Emma bit her lip. "The opinion of others?"

"I gave up on that ideal long ago." Kate shook her head and licked her lips. "I fear that I may not be able to control myself as efficiently as I did last night," she rasped. Gently, she pulled back and rose from her seat. "I cannot be trusted to be alone with you. You muddy the waters and bring on strange, but not entirely unwanted sensibilities that I cannot predict."

Emma watched, agog, as Kate calmly drew her finger across the solid door and took a peek through the slim hatch. "Heavens," Emma choked out, attempting to physically shake away the fog of fervour and excitement that buzzed hotly in her abdomen, by rubbing at her belly. "Can we return to Aunty's house yet?"

"I see it has thoroughly escaped your notice that I have been _incarcerated_," Kate said sardonically, deliberately over-pronouncing each syllable of the emphasised word.

A titter almost worked its way up Emma's throat, but she contained it. "Well, if the guards hadn't been too frightened of having their heads bitten off, they'd have told you that your captivity ended over an hour ago!"

"_What?_" Kate exclaimed, eyes wide. She began banging at the door. "Come here, you lily-livered poltroon!" she called through. "Guard?" Her brow furrowed as she became more and more irate. "Guard?"

Emma bustled past, waggling her fingers in the general direction of the door. "Open sesame!" she fan-fared dramatically, then nodded towards the handle.

Begrudgingly, Kate pulled at the door and it swung wide. "Oh I see. Yes, very clever," Kate said sarcastically. "Clearly you can remove 'illusionist' from your list of suitable employments too," she upbraided with a sly smile.

* * *

"You've got a visitor, dears," greeted Matilda, ushering Kate and Emma towards the sitting room. Curiously, they peeked through to see a figure standing by the fireplace.

"Is that..." Emma asked with shock.

"Yes, yes. It's most definitely the young girl who was on the platform that day. The one who took Millie's place as the go-between for those packages," Kate agreed.

As the entered the room, the young, mysterious woman turned and bobbed a small curtsy. "Miss Ashurst, Miss Scribbins."

Kate extended a hand and the woman shook it timidly. "I believe we know why you are here, Miss..."

"Please call me Bea. Bea Clement."

"Gerald Clement's sister!" Emma exclaimed. "But I don't understand: you were at the train station. How is it you're mixed up in all that?"

Looking weak on her knees, Kate and Emma guided Bea into a battered leather armchair and watched as she rubbed at her arms nervously. "I'm sorry to correct you, Miss, but I'm not his sister. Gerald is my husband. And we require your assistance."


	10. The Lies That Bind

"Gerald has fled Middleford," Bea uttered weakly, shaking her head with dismay. She watched her cup rattle on the saucer that was gripped tightly in her trembling hand. "He has been caught up in such a web of _deceit_." She spouted the words with pure abhorrence. Steadily, her strength gaining with each sip of tea, she continued: "You see... there was a man, known to my husband, who came upon the knowledge that I am actually Mrs Gerald Clement."

"Might I stop you for just a moment?" Kate asked, feeling a little mystified. "Why did you pose as his sister? Why _was _your marriage kept a closely guarded secret?" She paused for a moment and bit on her bottom lip nervously. "You need feel no qualms about vouchsafing this information to us."

Beside her, Emma nodded in keen agreement. "We shan't break your trust."

Pursing her lips, Bea swallowed and nodded to herself in reassurance. "My employer, Lady Brenning, does not hire married girls; she is of the belief that such a woman would focus only on her husband's needs, and not Lady Brenning's own. I should be dismissed if she discovered the falsehood."

"I see," Kate responded with a frown, noting Bea's inability to maintain eye contact. "Please... continue."

Bea's confidence improved, as did her deportment. Delicately setting down the teacup, she straightened her back and stretched her neck austerely. "The gentleman who held power over us demanded that Gerald provide him with a proportion of the goods he was selling. A form of blackmail." Her mode of speech and clear enunciation of words did not escape Kate and Emma's notice. Bea's simple and unassuming exterior seemed to be masking the fact that she was, in fact, extremely well bred. Her hands, however, told a story of harsh labour.

"Selling?" Kate interrupted, suspicions rising as she recalled the police inspector informing them of Gerald's past crimes.

"Yes, sold on behalf of your father, Miss Ashurst." Bea tilted her head a little, her expression somewhat glassy-eyed. "It was all rather sub rosa, if you catch my meaning. My husband was asked to keep the matter confidential, even from your good selves."

Kate was visibly taken aback by this implication. She despised the notion that she might have been unaware of her father's shady dealings, and so took umbrage against the comment. "I can _assure _you -"

"In aid of the emigration, I believe," Bea said surely. "Gerald was given various items by your father. It was requested of him that, by whatever means necessary, he would sell each privately. No one was to be informed, not even the family. Perhaps Mr Ashurst was simply too proud for the public auctioning of items?" she asked rhetorically.

A checkmate. Moderately abashed, Kate pressed her lips together and finally muttered in mute agreement. Rubbing at her forehead, she looked at the ceiling. "In all honesty, this comes as little surprise."

Emma turned her head sharply. "Really?"

Kate shrugged and, with a flick of her finger, re-directed Emma's attention back towards Bea. It was not something she wished to discuss in the presence of a comparative stranger. "So, Bea, is this... ah, I assume you are unaware of his name; shall we call him 'Mr Smith'?" Bea agreed. "Did Mr Smith begin requesting additional wares or money from Gerald? Is that why you require our help?"

Her eyes welled with tears as she grasped the arms of the chair. "Goodness, if money were the issue, we would have found a way. No, matters have progressed far beyond that: Gerald fears for his _life_," she blurted tersely. "And I, perhaps, should fear for my own. You see, I believe this rotten man killed poor Mr Balcomb. A man who, as I'm sure you've realised now, I had dealings with myself."

Emma squinted one eye and leaned in, concentrating very hard on the conversation. "What _was _all this... train business? You're the first person we've encountered who could actually tell us."

"Gerald and I came together one evening, as we often do, and like a bolt from the blue he insisted that I help him. For my safety, he refused to explain the reasoning behind it all. When I saw fear in his eyes, I could not deny his wishes. My role, as he explained it, was simply to collect whichever items were passed to me, and take them to an exceedingly nervous Mr Balcomb. No more. No less. I was just a pack horse on which items would be sent. And for the limited number of occasions I committed this act, I suffered no ill consequence. Then, once the shop had been razed to the ground, Mr Smith appeared no more."

"Do you know who set fire to the shop? Do you think it could have been Mr Smith?" Emma asked as she rubbed at her ear.

"Each time we met, Mr Balcomb would take me by the hand, look me in the eye and request that I stay away from the horrid business. I have always believed that he took a torch to the place himself; a hot poker to seal a weeping wound."

"The police said that he was already dead when the fire began, so it can't have been him." Emma wrinkled her nose. "So... the man on the train, who was it?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of intrigue. "We chased after him, but had no idea who we were looking for. Was it this Mr Smith?" Finally, they might have found someone who could actually answer their questions.

Bea's cheek twitched as she sighed. Solemnly and clearly, she gave her reply. "If I knew, I would tell you. He always wore a cap, pulled low over the eyes. To me, he was nothing more than a looming figure, cast in shadow, who thrust parcels out of the lowered window of the carriage door. And, yes, I can only presume it was the same man who was blackmailing Gerald."

"And Millie?" enquired Kate, still grasping onto her instinct about Alfred's innocence, even despite the jury's verdict. "What are your thoughts on her demise?"

"I don't like to consider the matter too heavily." Pensively, Bea clasped her hands as if in prayer, and raised them to her lips. "Gerald would never confirm his suspicions. All I know is that she failed to transport the goods from the train, and so I became her replacement."

Kate swallowed, nervous of what she was about to suggest. "Had it occurred to you that your husband might be the perpetrator behind both mur-"

"Miss Ashurst!" Bea exclaimed abruptly, her spine stiffening. "I came to you both in the vain hope that, in your current standing as the notorious _'lady detectives'_, you might aid my endeavour in capturing Mr Balcomb's _true_ murderer. But, _please_, do let on if I have been misled by the rumours regarding your attempts to uncover the truth behind this set of horrible tragedies," she yelped sardonically.

Surprised, not by the outburst but by the epithet, Emma turned to Kate wide-eyed and mouthed the words 'lady detectives'. A sense of pride rose in her stomach as she looked back to a rather red-faced Bea. "We are... uh, known?"

"Miss Scribbins, local society could hardly have missed your attempts to wheedle information from all and sundry. Of course you are _known_, though I dare say the majority believe that your, as the Americans might say, _snooping _did no good. You are, regardless, my last chance for saving my husband!" Dragging out a handkerchief, she dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

Kate pouted and inhaled deeply, sure that she held a trump card. "We shall help, but not until you have told us the _genuine _reason behind living apart from your husband."

Emma gave a quick nod as she leaned over to sift though a plate of biscuits on the tea tray. "Yes. And please explain how a _lady _like yourself became a servant." Bea opened her mouth to respond, but Emma jumped back in. "I'm sure you tell everyone that you're just well read, or that your father was a lost genius, but I'll give you a hint: you don't learn excellent posture like yours in service. Let alone the ability to maintain good diction during an outburst. And I should know -" she bit into the crumbling piece of shortbread and mumbled the rest "- as my family gave up on me as a lost cause when it came to conduct."

"Precisely." Kate smirked at their clearly synchronous thoughts, and instantly forgave Emma her indiscretion with the biscuits. For the time being, anyway.

"Very well. If you insist." Bea's jaw tightened as she considered her reply. "My current situation is the product of an affair which fell outside the norm. My given name is Beatrix Petty de Vere, first born to the 12th Earl of Waterburton. As for Gerald, well, he was our gardener's son." She closed her eyes as the memories came flooding back, but the thoughts didn't bring a smile to her lips. Instead, she winced. "Our love was uncovered, and Gerald shunned. After which, my eldest brother falsely accused him of stealing, and of violence." Her eyelashes fluttered. "I stood my ground, demanded my right to marry the man I desired without recrimination, but my parents' domineering, sanctimonious and Pooterish ways put a stop to that. The romance of our blissful alliance encouraged an escape, but we were soon followed. A year came and went, and we tired of the chase. By that juncture, Gerald's reputation was in tatters thanks to the detrimental accusations of my siblings. Nevertheless, he thankfully found employment at Ardmoore Grange. However, I was still a sought woman my father hot on my tail and seeking revenge for the taint I had brought to his name."

"And are you still on the run?" asked Emma, apprehensively chewing on the inside of her cheek.

Bea shook her head. "We created a lie. Paid for information to be passed with word of my death. I am sure my kin revelled in such news."

Kate was almost impressed by the actions the couple had taken, but saddened by the state of affairs. "And the Mr Smith character -"

"Yes, he threatened Gerald and claimed that he would reveal the truth to my family if we did not do as he commanded. Whether his threats had any basis to them, I do not know."

"But surely if Gerald has met this man face to face, he would be the best person for us to speak to." Kate sat forward in her chair. "He could identify this malefactor!"

"Would that we could." Bea looked solemnly at the heaped ashes in the base of fireplace's grate. "I have no clue as to where he has hidden himself. I just pray he is safe."

"But why haven't you gone to the police?" asked Emma, shaking her head.

"Only to be arrested for giving false information and fabricating an alibi for Gerald? I think not. No, you Miss Scribbins and Miss Ashurst, are my only hope. My husband's life is in your hands."

* * *

"Anything?" Emma folded her arms, puffed out her cheeks and leant back against the wall of the hallway.

Kate, who was sitting on the stairs, rumbled her fingers over the spindles and frowned. "I'm lost in all this. I have no idea to whom we should speak, or where to look."

"Horrible story." Emma sucked on her upper lip pensively. "About Bea and Gerald, I mean." Doubts were beginning to lodge themselves in her mind. The logistics of a pseudo-marriage between herself and Kate seemed suddenly intangible, where before she saw Kate as the only obstacle to overcome. For the Clements, a life together meant hardship apart; this didn't seem right or fair.

"Mm," Kate agreed distractedly. "Terrible. Now, are we even sure she is telling the truth? Or is she just covering one lie with another? For all we know, she could be the murderer, seeking to further confuse us. A red herring. She could even be this Mr Smith persona, which begs the question, why come to us? What would that achieve? Alfred has already been convicted. Perhaps she _is _genuine. What do you think?"

Emma hunched her shoulders and curled her lip. "Don't know," she muttered unintelligibly.

"Pardon?" Kate got to her feet, approached her sulking companion and tucked a loose strand of Emma's ash blonde hair back beneath a clasp.

"What are we going to do?" she huffed.

"Don't be petulant." Delicately, Kate reached out and took Emma's hands in her own, their fingers interlacing.

"I don't mean about the murders or the infamous Mr _blitherin' _Smith. I'm talking about us. Our lives, our -"

"I know. I know you are," Kate said with surprising calmness. "But for now, we have someone potentially in need to aid. There may even be time enough to save Alfred from hanging. So... if you can keep your head -"

Emma raised an annoyed eyebrow. "Please don't quote Kipling when I'm in a funk."

"Actually..." Kate's eyelashes fluttered as she leaned in, heat rising in her cheeks. "I _was _going to say that if you can keep your head, then we might live up to our joint title of 'lady detectives', but well spotted on the poem front." At that moment, and without warning, Matilda came blustering through and caused the young women to jump with fright. She looked them up and down curiously, shook her head and scowled. Suddenly, and much to Kate's astonishment, she began battling at Kate's behind with the flat of hand, forcing her directly into Emma's arms. "What on earth..." Kate exclaimed, freezing in position.

"Those children and their chalk," Matilda explained with a snorting chuckle as she looked over at the mess of drawings on the wooden stairs. "You've a cat outlined on your bottom," she sniggered, edging around to the side of them. She looked puzzled once again, narrowing her eyes as she loomed in. "Mind you don't get a fever, won't you? Spring may have sprung, but that's no excuse not to wrap up." She tapped them both sweetly on their blushing cheeks and trotted out of the front door, slamming it behind her.

"What an extraordinary woman." Kate peered down the hallway to check that they were now quite alone. "God forbid it, but I'm _almost _growing to like her." They disentangled themselves from the clumsy half-cuddle so that Kate could examine her skirt. "Oh, look at the state of this. It's absolutely covered," she growled discontentedly. "I'd better go wash and press it."

"I'll do it for you."

"Emma, I would no more hand you a hot iron and expect you to handle it correctly, than I would a semi-aquatic marine mammal."

"Thanks," she grumbled bitterly.

"Don't take offence. I just don't happen to believe laundering would be one of your greater skills."

"Pah! Skills, yes, of which I have none, apparently. A fact you always seem so happy to point out." Emma grimaced.

Kate squeezed shut her eyes, well aware of her own propensity for tactlessness. After a deep breath and a little silent self-beration, she grabbed Emma by the waist and commanded her attention. "You have many wonderful qualities," she asserted candidly. "You are gregarious, kind, inventive, attentive and an entirely more worthy human being than I. You are also very... " Kate's throat bobbed as she tried to find the words. She wanted to explain to Emma that she had always had the most extraordinary ability for making Kate feel entirely overwhelmed and utterly debilitated. That she placed her in higher regard than anyone else she had ever known. That she trusted her above all others. "You make me feel safe."

Alas, Emma had been hoping for some kind of 'pretty' comment. She rolled her eyes, not realising just how difficult Kate had found the conversation. "Go on. Off you go." From the foot of the stairs, she ushered Kate up and watched her chalky rear move hypnotically. "You'd better get those clothes off," she said, tapping her fingertips on the newel post impatiently. "Hang about," she semi-whispered to herself. "I've heard something. Or seen something."

Kate turned on her heel and looked down. "That kind of thing does tend to happen on a day-to-day basis, you know. The seeing and the hearing," she mocked, watching Emma pace up and down the hallway.

"Actually, it's something I've seen _and _heard." Emma pulled on her coat and gloves and pulled hard on the latch. "Back soon."

"Well, what is it?" The door banged shut. "You maddening creature," Kate sighed through a slight smile.

* * *

"Sergeant Gallimore," Emma panted, quite out of breath and holding onto his arm to steady herself.

"You're in this place more than I am. Are you after my job?" he joked.

"No, no. I'd look terrible in that moustache," she quipped as they walked through the foyer of the police station. "I need to see the photographs taken of Millicent Brookes' dead body."

"Are you one of them necrofeeniacs?" he asked, pointing at a chair by his desk and lighting his pipe.

"Even _I _know that's not the right term." Emma sat down and looked over her shoulder at the board, but there was a whole host of new crime scene photographs there now. "But no, I'm just curious about something."

"Will that desire ever cease, you think?" The voice came from behind. Sullivan emerged, looking quite cheery. Emma had quite forgotten her little post-trial promise to him and was suddenly feeling awkward. "Get Miss Scribbins some tea, Gallimore. There's a good chap."

"But I'm a sergeant," he bemoaned.

"Then hopefully you should be sufficiently mentally equipped to make a simple cup of tea."

Gallimore sloped off and Emma called after him: "Thank you. Milky. One lump."

"Yes, I call him that sometimes too." Sullivan smirked.

Emma couldn't help but laugh at the comment. When the inspector perched on the side of the desk, she leaned over and patted his arm. "Nice to see you in good spirits," she said, relaxing a little.

"Well, with every case closed there is great sense of achievement. I like to think we do a good job of protecting the public. So, what has caused you to honour us with your presence? Something good, I hope."

"Uh, well, I had a thought." Emma winced, gritted her teeth and tried to smile.

Gallimore swung past and dropped a string bound file onto the desk. "Those photographs you wanted."

"Seeking to discredit us?" asked Sullivan with a small laugh.

To his surprise, Emma responded with a simple: "Maybe." She immediately began rummaging through the papers and, without looking up, waved her hand in the air. "Magnifying glass?" One was planted in her palm. On closer examination, Emma found what she was seeking. "There!" She looked up at Sullivan. "I think I know who killed Millie." Even Emma herself felt surprised at this revelation.


	11. Chalk It Up to Experience

The blackened cast iron hinges groaned ominously as Kate pushed wide the door, cautiously stepping through into the dimly-lit house. "Hello?" she called, her voice seeming to reverberate as she walked through the small home. With trepidation, she rapped a knuckle upon the wooden door frame of the sitting room. "Mrs Brookes? Mr Brookes?" Silence. "Anyone?" The emptiness filled her with a cold dread.

Ascending the stairs, she began to wonder if this was how the crew of the _Dei Gratia_ felt as they stepped aboard the wet deck of the deserted brigatine, _Mary Celeste_. Firstly, she entered the children's bedroom. No sign of life. Nor any apparent disruption, apart from a cast aside linen-stuffed, flop-eared rabbit, and the usual untidiness one would expect. The window was open, and a curtain flapped wildly in the breeze. Kate shivered. In her eyes, nothing seemed to merit concern, but there was something in the air. The house felt different; it felt wrong.

Pausing at the entrance to the last remaining room, Kate swallowed hard, feeling distinctly uneasy. "Hello?" she called once again, feeling like a medium requesting contact from the other side. Biting her lip, she held her hand out; it hovered over the knob. "For Heaven's sake, Kate, just get on with it," she told herself in a whisper.

* * *

"I'm not _entirely _sure why I've agreed to this," Sullivan scoffed as he looked down his nose at Emma.

Regardless, she continued to press chalk onto the front of his waistcoat with complete abandon. Once happy with her work, she cast the board duster to one side and, swivelling on her heel, stepped back towards him. "Put your hands on my shoulders and press yourself to my back. Just like the murderer would have done when he put the lace across Millie's throat."

"I'm really not sure -"

Emma reached behind her and grabbed hold of his hips to pull him forward. The inspector blushed as their bodies clashed. "There."

The door to the office flew open, and Kate came barging through. "Hellfire and brimstone; it gets worse," she declared, speedily unbuttoning her woollen jacket and pulling it from her shoulders to hang on the inspector's personal coat and hat stand.

"He wasn't trying to charm me. I was just trying to prove my theory about the sugar," Emma garbled defensively, trotting over to Kate to mollify her.

"I'll make another pot of tea, shall I?" Gallimore said crabbily, leaving the room with a shake of his head and a roll of his eyes.

Kate extended her arms towards Emma, her fingers splayed rigidly. "After you left, I decided to change and pay a visit to the Brookes family, but they have _vanished,_" she announced, flinging her arms out to the side dramatically. "That being said, one person remained: Mr Brookes." Kate took a sharp intake of breath through clenched teeth. "But, alas, he is gravely ill and now in the care of Doctor St. John."

"An attempted murder?" exclaimed Emma, clapping her hand over her mouth.

"No, I don't believe so." Kate closed her eyes, seeking to obliterate the image of the almost cadaver-like expression of the man limply lain on his bed. "No struggle. No apparent wounds. An empty bottle on the floor. Relatively small. Unlabelled. I believed it was an attempt to end his life."

"Gosh."

"I used a word a little less dignified when I first saw him, but yes... _gosh _befits equally." Leaning back against the wall, Kate held her palm to her forehead and watched as Sullivan called forth an officer, then gave instruction for him to go to the Brookes' house. "The poor man must have been so grief struck -" she sighed.

"Guilty, you mean," Emma corrected

Dumbfounded, Sullivan and Kate both said: "Pardon?"

"Well, grief-ridden too, but now that I know who killed Millie, I understand why Mr Brookes acted the way he did at the trial." Emma circled the desk, picked up a book and perused a few pages. "At least, I think I do. I'm just guessing. But that's valid, yes?"

Kate's expectant look turned to irritation. "Will you ever get to the point? Or shall I fetch a police officer to interrogate you to save my poor head? What do you mean you know who killed Millie?"

Emma picked up one of the photographs from the set of files and held it up to her chest for them both to see. "Look. Here we see Millie, as she was found, and over here -" she held her fingertip to the bottom corner "- is the tipped over powdered sugar that Mrs Beechley mentioned at the trial. What do you notice about it?" They leaned in to examine closer. Sullivan pushed his hands into his pockets and shrugged.

Kate screwed up her face, tightened her fists and looked flabbergasted. "It's a very even sprinkling of sugar caused by that tin falling. Probably knocked over during the struggle."

"That's it!" Emma said triumphantly.

"_It _being this strange exercise in stating the obvious?" came Kate's snapping retort.

Immune to the dissension, Emma pressed her lips together and bobbed on the spot, almost too excited for words. "There are no footprints, no marks, no nothing."

"Not _any_thing," corrected Kate.

"Exactly!" she nodded giddily. "During the trial Mrs Beechley _definitely_ said she brushed the powder from Millie's back." She indicated the photograph again. "But there's no sign of it on her shoes or front of her dress. So how did she come to have it on her back... and _only_ her back?" She looked hopefully at her bemused cohorts, but they stared back at her blankly. "The same way _I _did just now." She turned to show the back of her tightly-buttoned overcoat, which was marked with an imprint of the chalk that she had rubbed onto the inspector's chest earlier. "It wasn't caused by the spilt powdered sugar; it came from the clothes of her murderer."

"So you're saying that Alfred had a coating of fine sugar on his clothes?" asked Sullivan.

"Not Alfred, Inspector. And not sugar... flour." She turned to a baffled-looking Kate. "Just like I had on my clothes that day we boarded the train, do you remember?"

Kate could hardly forget. Slowly the pieces began to click into place. The train. The boy and his lack of ticket. The mass exit of the group of passengers. The floury seat on which Emma had then sat. She became agape with realisation. "So the blackmailer - or Mr Smith as we have named him - _is _likely to be the murderer?"

Emma nodded in fervent agreement. "It came to me when you sat on that chalk dust earlier."

Embarrassed, Kate gave Sullivan a pre-emptive explanation: "I do not make a habit of lounging about on filthy stairways, you understand. Or any filthy places for that matter. I have no reason to. I'm not a naturally slovenly person. I'm just not."

Sullivan frowned, unsure of Kate's need to explain herself. "Do you have a name for this flour-coated extortionist and murderer?" he questioned skeptically.

Kate's lip quirked as she shrugged. "I'm afraid -"

"It's obvious," Emma interjected, surprising Kate. "Don't you see it? Flour..."

Kate turned to Sullivan and winced. "I may have missed a vital fact, due to my non-attendance at the latter half of the trial."

Sullivan pursed his lips. "You'll have to be a little clearer, Miss Scribbins."

Emma's shoulders sagged. "Fred Massey!" she exclaimed. "The mill cart boy... who delivers the _flour_! The very man who _claimed _he had taken Alfred to Grange that night."

"Oh my goodness." Kate looked astounded. "Of course. Fred would have been in a prime position to blackmail my family's valuables from Gerald Clement, and arrange to use Millie as a go-between..."

"Only she skipped off with the watch to pay for her sister's medical procedure..." Emma added.

"So he took his wicked revenge on her." Kate nodded sagely. She began to circle the room, pounding the air with her fist as she linked each loose end in her mind's eye. "Fred must have threatened Mr Brookes and demanded that he testify against Alfred, giving false evidence to say that he saw him board the cart. You said, did you not, Emma, that they looked uneasily at each other in the court room? That definitely alludes to some kind of conspiracy. Helping to put an innocent young man to death must have sent the man over the edge."

Sullivan settled down into an armchair by the fire, leant forward and clasped his hands together. "You do understand that all of this is conjecture. Any magistrate could explain away these theories. Especially the flour, or sugar, or whatever it was. In their eyes it's exceedingly tenuous. I'm sorry; there's nothing I can do." He watched as Gallimore pushed open the door with his rear and carried in a tray. "Unless you have something I can place in the hands of the courts."

Emma looked around the room, her eyes frantic with a desire to prove their theory. She had a small brainwave. "What about Jesse Balcomb? I'll bet any amount of money on his clothes having white marks on the back."

"No marks," Gallimore responded, pointing over his shoulder at the board where the pawnbroker's case findings were still laid out, surrounded by chalked notes in a copperplate style. "He'd been in the river some time. Nothing but scum and algae on him."

Kate glanced at Emma and her heart sank at the sight of Emma's dejected pose. Rising from her seat, Kate moved to take a closer look at the set of photographs linked to the details of Jesse Balcomb's death. As she perused the evidence, her pulse rate increased and she became more and more sure of herself. "Inspector?"

"Yes?" Sullivan blinked away his brooding expression.

"I believe you need to have your medical examiner re-assess Mr Balcomb's time of death. Because he is, without a shadow of a doubt, the same gentleman who set the fire. I recognise his features, even despite the decomposition of the body," she assured. "And since he was therefore alive at the time of the fire - and at the time Alfred was in your custody - therefore Alfred cannot be your man."

Emma folded her arms and stood up straight, stirred by the revelation. "If Fred found out that Balcomb wanted out of their little business, that would have definitely been a motive to murder him," Emma explained to the perplexed policemen. "He must have tracked him down, killed him and planted the note. Thereby implicating Alfred."

"You could be mistaken, Miss Ashurst. Seeing what you wish to see. And besides, our forensic medic was extremely sure that the body had been dead for quite some time _before -_-"

"Oh, come on, Inspector," Emma interrupted. "We all know what happens when you put something in liquid. Haven't you ever dunked a gingerbread nut in your tea for a few seconds too long?"

"You can't argue with that logic," Gallimore agreed.

"Again... proof?" Sullivan exhaled discontentedly.

"That old chestnut." Pouting, Emma pushed her hands deep into the pockets of her overcoat and sagged into a chair. Feeling paper between her fingertips, she had another thought. "What about a note? Written by Alfred." She pulled out her notebook and revealed Alfred's poem, which was still wedged between two leaves at the back. "You could compare the hand to that of the one planted on Balcomb's person."

"Alfred could have written the notes using different styles."

"But surely -"

"If you truly believe your time line of events, then we need concrete evidence to reverse Alfred's conviction and implicate Fred Massey."

Kate nodded solemnly, her gaze fixed on Emma, who now had her head in her hands. "I suppose... without Clement, and now with Mr Brookes heading for oblivion and the disappearance of his family, we have nothing more we can bring to the table. Our involvement shall, sadly, end here. "

* * *

Kate dropped the lid of the trunk and fastened the catch. Hugging her waist, she took the time to contemplate the room that had become a temporary home for them both. An inexplicable sadness rose in her throat and, with difficulty, she attempted to swallow it away. She had become accustomed to the house, the air, the people and the lifestyle. Once again it would seem that everything was due to change, but not necessarily for the better. Sinking down onto the edge of the bed, she stared contemplatively at the evening sun's low light that cast shadows on the bare wall beyond.

"So this is the end?" Emma conceded, as she joined Kate on the bed, sitting directly to her left.

Kate closed her eyes, frowned and worried at her bottom lip with her teeth. "It has been quite an adventure," she admitted. Tilting her head to one side, she added: "Of sorts." She looked back at their makeshift double-wide bed. "Perhaps I should return to the Grange alone. Allow you some privacy for a day or so."

Either side of her hips, Emma's fists grappled at the counterpane. She was determined to hold her tongue, but it filled her with anxiety to think of not having Kate by her side as she slept. Seasickness was the closest malady to which she could compare the feeling, but she didn't admit this to Kate. Her verbal restraint lasted barely half a minute. "I'll be staying on here anyway; there's no point in my returning to the Grange only for you to leave it soon after."

"Ah." Kate rubbed and pinched at the bridge of her nose, then let out a shaky breath. There was a claustrophobic feeling of failure in the air. Both women sensed it and each falsely presumed that the other desired a finality to their partnership.

"I can't stop thinking about Gerald and Bea, and the consequences of their love." Emma's right leg was restless and visibly joggling.

Kate reached over and placed her left hand on the offending knee. Unaware of herself, she gripped tightly, almost engaging the use of her nails. Emma's breath caught. The delinquent arm was immediately drawn back and Kate clutched her own elbow, fearing that she was not quite in full possession of herself. The tip of her tongue rubbed over the sharps of her top incisors as she breathed irritably. "It was the path they chose, Emma. I..." Kate twisted to one side. The bed creaked loudly. "Blasted thing." Distractions seemed to form in abundance and frustration took an even greater hold on Kate. The fire hissed as a bulge of sap popped and made them both jump. Then, outside, an impolite shout echoed along the long lane. "Ugh," Kate winced, unnerved and craving silence to collect her thoughts.

"I shouldn't have tried to take you away from your family," Emma tried to rationalise. "Or attempt to have you return my affections."

Kate thought back to their kiss and, for a few seconds, she was re-enraptured by the ghost of Emma's lips on her own. She shook the memory away. "How could you presume that I would allow myself to be led by some... some _pocket _whimsy of yours?" she rasped, affronted. "I am not blind to my own desires. Nor am I a weed that bends to the will of the sun." In truth, she believed her attraction to Emma had arisen long before Emma had ever begun to see their friendship in a different light.

"Sorry." Emma eyelashes fluttered as she watched Kate become further enraged by the apology. It gave her an immense sense of satisfaction and shameful joy. "Does that means you truly..." In a fraction of a moment, she changed her mind, not wishing to know the fullness of Kate's thoughts. She considered that to complicate matters would make the separation more difficult. "You're right, you should leave tonight."

Kate felt hurt; it caused her stomach to churn with sorrow. She had not expected Emma to agree. "Fine. Then it is decided. I depart today." Blush rose in her cheeks as she let out a long huff of breath. "Now, in fact."

"Fine. Good." But neither stood. Instead, they both stared at the floor. Emma scowled and sniffed. "We would have made a terrible alliance anyway. Couldn't even solve a couple of murders. Couldn't save Alfred." She pouted and tears welled in her eyes. "If I had done better, you might have seen worth in me."

"Don't be silly." Kate shook her head gently. "Besides, there may still be time to save Alfred now that we have sent word to Beatrix of your findings. There is nothing more we can do." She felt a jolt in her heart. "I shall always be the first to say that you solved those mysteries beautifully and, regardless of our inability to have the true perpetrator convicted, I will always believe that you fathomed the case in its entirety."

"Thank you."

Kate nudged her shoulder against Emma's. "Not without my help, of course."

Emma nodded and smirked. "Yes. Perhaps not such a terrible alliance after all." Reaching over, she placed her hand on top of Kate's, but instantly regretted it, knowing how difficult it would be to let go when the time came. "I hope you find love," she uttered softly and uncertainly, wishing to add: 'with another' to the end of her sentence.

Kate was determined to keep a stiff upper lip about their situation. "I have told you before: I don't believe I have -"

"The proper capacity to love. I remember."

Kate's mouth automatically drew into a wide, shy smile. "Well now, there's another perfect example to add to your long list of marvellous attributes: your remarkable memory," she laughed, pride brewing in her chest. As the chuckle ebbed away, she found herself melancholy once again. Emma had begun to alternately squeeze Kate's fingers, then rub her thumb along her palm. Gazing open-mouthed at the action, Kate's eyes flickered. "What do you suppose would happen... if I said I loved you?" she found herself saying.

Emma fell quite still, a gulp of air stopped in her lungs and goose flesh appeared on her arms. Clearing her throat, she attempted a reply: "If you said you loved me, I would..." Her chest rose and fell with short, considered gasps. "I would say... I would say... I wouldn't know what to say." She held her free hand to her forehead, suddenly feverish. "I would say that it's not fair to tell me such a thing. Not now."

Kate nodded. "Fortunate that I have not, then."

"Very." Emma's stomach had begun to hurt.

"So this is farewell?"

Emma tensed physically and gritted her teeth, no longer able to look Kate in the eye. "If you say so."

"I do." However, Kate failed to move away. Her tongue pressed at the ridge of her mouth, desperate to stop words escaping without proper prior consideration. Suddenly, she seemed to realise something. "I haven't a photograph of you," she said, clearly distressed by the fact.

"You're not a solider going to war," Emma laughed mirthlessly. "Why would you want a photograph of _me_?"

"Because I don't have _you_." The hasty admission had tumbled out of Kate's mouth unbidden. Her emotions were finally speaking louder than her mind, but she tried not to regret the outburst.

Emma clenched shut her eyes, attempting to stem the tide of burgeoning tears. She so wanted to do what was right. At long last, they caught each other's gaze and Emma considered the alluringly-handsome, intelligent woman before her. She wondered about Kate's potential for marriage and children, then meditated on how much more distinguished and well-bred Kate was compared with herself. Smiling falsely, she was about to respond with some dismissively trite phrase, when she thought of something she herself had said. _'One can't deny the quickening of the heart.' _Many questions arose in her mind, but they all seemed irrelevant when she paid due attention to the almost painfully rhythmic thump in her chest. Kate went to stand, but Emma held her down, pressing their interlocked hands against Kate's left thigh. She was reminded of the Clements and their difficulties, but also Alfred, who had lost his love and was soon to lose his life. Those people's misfortunes had not been not caused by whom they loved, but by the circumstances in which they had found themselves. "So little is certain," Emma imparted aloud.

Feeling entirely unsure of what thoughts were drifting through Emma's consciousness, Kate's head swam. She attempted to derive answers from the silent messages sent by Emma's expressive eyes, but to no avail. "After tonight, we might never come to meet again. So... might you grant me a..." Kate couldn't finish the request, but nevertheless Emma understood. Tremulously, they unclasped hands and wrapped their arms around each other in a simple, genial hug.


	12. Decisions at Dusk

They're like buses! You wait for months for 1 and then 3 come along at once. For anyone who has just seen this, I've also posted 10 and 11 this week. xx

* * *

As the seconds passed the embrace grew tighter. Kate's fingertips pushed at Emma's taut stays through the fabric of her blouse. "I can barely feel you," she whispered urgently, causing Emma's stomach to twist in pleasant turmoil. "If this is a goodbye, I need you closer," she demanded simply.

Pressing her cheek firmly against the angle of Kate's jaw bone, Emma allowed her lips to lightly brush at Kate's neck. Stubbornly, neither woman was willing to be the initiator of an even greater intimacy. Nevertheless, Kate revelled in the tingle of warmth as Emma's mouth skated past her ear. Clamping her teeth down on her bottom lip, she dug her chin into Emma's shoulder and increased the strength of her hold to a restrictive crush.

Clasp by clasp, she felt her hair being let down, then fingertips combing through the length of her soft, dark tresses. Craning her neck at the sensation, she began to do the same to Emma, allowing soft blonde curls to fall. She breathed in the sweet, flowery scent, nuzzling her nose into fistfuls of silken hair. Suddenly, she felt slim nails graze her scalp. The internal reaction was base and visceral. Despite feeling unclear as to what the rapid palpitations and intense jolts meant, she understood that she craved more of them. If such simple gestures could induce such wild reactions, then she wished to know what else there was to experience.

Emma pulled back, forcing Kate away from her. Expecting to see her companion stern or saddened, she instead found her almost awe-struck; mouth open, chest rising and falling with heaving breaths, cheeks rouge-like from arousal. She blinked and licked her lips, almost unable to believe that she could attribute Kate's current state to their contact. It was almost epiphany-inducing for both women, since Emma was in a similar condition. She reached out, seeking to lightly run her fingertip down the length of Kate's nose. As she did so, Kate grabbed her wrist and kissed her fingertips. For some time, they stared at each other, barely blinking and both trembling. Their resolve was dissipating with every minute that passed, goodbyes further and further from their minds.

Emma ran her hands up Kate's arms, over the fronts of her shoulders and pushed at Kate's chin with her knuckles. Obediently, Kate tipped her head back as Emma pushed a finger behind her slim necktie and tugged to loosen the knot. She watched Kate's throat swell with a gasp, and, leaning closer, carefully slid the silk tie free of the stiff collar, laying it respectfully to one side. Using both hands, she unfastened three buttons with a wrench to reveal the dip between Kate's collar bones. Though her desire was to plant a kiss there, she resisted.

Kate lowered her chin and exhaled shakily. She understood this minor piece of undressing to be the white flag of surrender, and the red rag of engagement. An invitation. Putting a hand out on the bed to steady herself, she began to lean in. Emma reflected her pose. Consternation soon turned to concentration as they tried to predict each other's wishes. Hesitantly, Kate ceased her movement, though her eyes still flashed with want. They were almost nose to nose.

"You can kiss me, if you wish," Emma said innocently.

"May," Kate corrected under her breath.

Further invigorated by even the smallest response, Emma's eyes widened and she frowned at the lack of dismissal. "You... _may _kiss me."

"It feels wrong -" Kate began as her eyelashes fluttered, causing Emma's stomach to drop, fearing that Kate's old concerns had returned "- to be permitted a kiss from that sublime mouth."

Without hesitation, Emma reached out and grasped at Kate's shirt, yanking her forward so that their lips pressed together roughly. But there, she held the pose and waited for a physical response. A paused connection of mouths. Uncertainly, Kate returned the kiss with the barest of pouts and then drew back slightly to look into Emma's eyes for reassurance. Forthwith, Emma re-closed the distance and let her bottom lip drag tantalizingly over Kate's. A guttural moan crept up Kate's throat and Emma whimpered in reaction to it. As their eyelids fluttered closed, Emma began to grasp once again at Kate's hair, pulling and craving the intensity of touch. The draw became too much to resist. Resolutely, Kate clasped Emma by the cheeks and pulled her mouth against her own in a rigorously-dealt clinch.

Emma breathed Kate in, and began chasing the ultimate closeness. Matching Emma's desire, Kate nudged firmly at Emma's mouth to solicit further audible groans of gratification. After a few minutes of the simple caressing of lips, they fell deeper into one another and a never before encountered delicious pressing of tongues began, causing fires to ignite in their stomachs. Not wishing to break for air, they breathed sharply through their noses; the sound further inducing the shocks of stimulation that flooded their abdomens and sent a prickle of tingles up their spines. Hands roamed lower, pulling at waistbands and ripping at fabric. To their distracted, overwhelmed minds, buttons and hooks became overly-complicated, exasperating obstructions; their clothes threatened to tear as they pulled ineptly at the catches. Once down to stays and skirts, Emma stood and reached behind to untie Kate's corset. She ripped it free with an enormous sense of satisfaction, as if she had finally unlocked the cage in which Kate kept herself.

With an extremely large inhalation - as if she had just emerged from deep waters - Kate rose, grabbed Emma and turned her so that she might release her from the same bindings. Pulling the stay free, she flung it to one side to join its counterpart. Emma turned back to face her and without breaking eye contact, pulled up each knee in turn to unbuckle and remove her own shoes. Once complete, Emma slunk down, crouching and leaning in towards Kate's hips and grabbing hold of her boots. As she unravelled the laces from their hooks, Emma held onto Kate's stockinged ankle, causing Kate, once again, to bite repeatedly at already well-bitten lips. The drag and tug of the laces seemed to transform any and all feelings of daunt into wanton greed.

Many pieces of clothing had been removed, yet so little skin was visible. As their skirts slipped to the floor, Emma fingered the ribbon that gathered at the neckline of Kate's chemise. Her eye line flicked several times towards the bed and Kate couldn't help but notice. She grabbed Emma by the waist and caught her mouth in a kiss once again. Feverishly, she pushed her hands over every inch she could discover, fascinated by the shapes she could feel through the thin muslin and cotton. But, when Emma's hands rose over the swell of Kate's breasts, she could not keep standing any longer. It was too much to bear, fostering the flame in her belly to such an extent that it became an almost unendurable, but enjoyable, burn.

In the safety of Kate's arms, Emma was paced backwards. Her knees buckled and she suddenly felt the mattress hard at her back. She pulled herself back until her head bounced up against pillows. Kate crawled further up the bed and lay down on top her. The relief was almost palpable. Despite the last scraps of clothing, they could truly feel one another's bodies. The sensation was completely unrivalled by anything else they had ever encountered. They kissed, and both let out a stifled cry at the welcome burst of elation and heat when Kate, powered by instinct, ground her hips against Emma's. With every change in motion, they caught each other's eye, checking for discomfort or fear or the desire to escape. Kate lifted herself off Emma and they shyly slipped out of their underthings.

Now entirely naked, a rush of new excitement came to them. Kate let her hand drift over Emma's bare side, almost unable to bring herself to touch. Emma, wishing for warmth, grabbed at Kate's bottom and urged her to sink back down. She did as bid and they both lay shivering into the embrace. They rubbed noses and then Kate pressed her forehead against Emma's hot cheek. The concept of skin to skin contact seemed so new and alien, yet so comfortable and seemingly appropriate. Slowly gaining confidence, they writhed against each other a little and relished the smoothness. Faint grumbles of appreciation slipped from their throats as they kissed their way across each other's shoulders and necks, their lips finding each other periodically.

Caught off guard, Emma suddenly shouted an expletive when Kate's thigh slipped between her own. It caused Kate to panic and become unsure; not least of causing pain, but frightened of the regret that Emma might feel if they further consummated their affections. The overwhelming carnal desire mixed with a dull, aching fear made Kate's stomach feel heavy; suddenly filled with a resentment that the animalistic itch existed at all. She bit the feeling back, pushed it down until all she could see was the dim outline of Emma's lithe body, the curve of her cheeks, her sweet, begging mouth and the reflection of fading sunlight in her eyes. She lifted Emma's arms above her head, roughly clutching both her wrists in one hand, thereby removing responsibility and placing it squarely on her own shoulders; she chose to assume the position of the offender, a perpetrator of licentious and lewd acts. She wanted to save Emma from blame.

Unwilling to be made the innocent, Emma pulled her left knee back and curled it around Kate's right thigh, pulling closer and wishing to display the extent of her mutual craving without words. She looked at Kate with unadulterated lust and desire and, eventually, Kate released the strong grip on her wrists and instead ran her fingers through Emma's hair lovingly. They would be equal in this matter after all. Sensing hands hard on her hips, Kate closed her eyes and tensed her muscles pleasantly, curving her back and pushing her abdomen firmly against Emma's.

Through the desperation for closeness, neither body could hold the other near enough; kisses became fierce and almost wetly abrasive. Emma dug her soft heel into the crook of Kate's knee, toes pressing into the strong flexing calf muscle. Hot teasing breath tickled at her throat as the comforting brush of thigh on thigh lulled her into a dream-like state of pleasure. She clung on tightly, wrapping her arms around Kate's back and feeling as though she might slip off the world altogether. Becoming so consumed by Kate's kisses, she almost forgot to breathe.

Their combined knowledge of the mythologies of sex and the science of reproduction guided their more educated movements. The throbs and urges of nature aided the rest. They clung together, close as they could be, moving apart only to occasionally drive a hand between them for more precise, deftly-applied pressings. Listening to the intense and erratic breath sounds she appeared to be provoking, Kate scuffed her teeth across Emma's right collar bone whilst plunging a hand into luscious blonde hair and grabbing at the nape of Emma's neck.

Nervous limbs began to shake as their muscles became increasingly taut, like elastic stretched to its limit. The rub of linen seemed to embellish the moment, as did the creak of bed springs. They felt enlivened by the blood rushing through their veins. Their combined need drove them to push more and more: a thoroughly intertwined union. Still, the nervous passion kept them constantly seeking approval. Unable to speak, they communicated with a nod, a shake of the head, the simple the massage of a muscle, or the rapid blink of an eye. When body language failed to be sufficient, they resorted to physically guiding one another, placing hand on hand, or shifting the pose of the other woman satisfactorily.

Like static electricity, sensation distilled and almost crackled within them, threatening to shock, building and building, until first Emma shuddered, her limbs losing their elegance as she felt the rumble drive through her body. Kate panicked at first, but received fervent kisses in advocacy of the event. The rock ebbed tidally, and, once able, Emma fought hard to induce the same reaction in Kate. She pushed Kate onto her back and using her hands, her mouth and her thighs, she nuzzled and rubbed and caressed as best she knew how. Kate licked her dry lips and pressed at her forehead with her palms as she prepared for the unexpected. It seemed almost as though it would never come, but, when it finally did, she yelped in gratitude as she trembled, awash with fulfillment.

Kate's loud gasps gave way to throaty whimpers. They settled: a collision of ships on stormy seas that formed a unique heaving wreckage. It was only then that Kate realised the room was now almost entirely dark, and, were it not for the fire, would be pitch black. She sensed a tear-soaked eyelash fluttering against her shoulder and her throat tightened. "I've hurt you?" she spoke simply, like a child, hoping that pain would be the cause, rather than regret.

"No." Emma shook her head, her hair rolling pleasantly over Kate's skin. "But, had you, I wouldn't have cared. I'd take a cuff or slap from those hands, just to be close to you."

"Remorseful, then?" she uttered with pure, sweet concern.

"No. Just so completely... I can't even explain it."

"Do you feel different?" Kate asked, ever the one for analysis.

"I feel all aglow inside, and my heart is pounding," Emma mused, shifting off her companion to snuggle into her side.

"Look. I'm going to stay in Middleford. I'm going to defy my step-father, and I'm not going to marry Peter. But I completely understand that this is a one-off, and that I need to let you lead your life."

Emma bashed her forehead against Kate's shoulder. "But why?"

"Because to force you into unnatural living is not fair on a pretty thing like you."

"Kate! I love you, you buffoon. It doesn't feel like unnatural living to me, you halfwit," Emma berated.

"That's strange. Usually it is I who has the angry outbursts," she sniggered.

"Feel free. I adore you when you're furious," Emma whispered into Kate's ear. "Those blazing cheeks make me want to pin you down."

Kate paused in thought, her stomach rolling over at the back-handed compliment. "Do you really love me? Because I've never been able to quantify the -"

Emma sighed impatiently. "Yes, Kate. And you love me. It's perfectly fine. You don't have to get your rule stick out and measure the level of your adoration of me. I don't care. You don't care."

"No need to mock," Kate grumbled, crossing her arms over her exposed chest.

"Yes, there is. We always mock each other; it's part of our charm." Emma kissed Kate's upper arm. "And there's no way of getting out of it now. There's no way you can take me to the peaks of ecstasy and then leave me. God, if I knew about the glory of your naked body, I'd have wooed you long ago," she said, walking her fingertips over Kate's stomach. "Who else would take such care and consideration over not only my well-being but also my deepest desires?"

"Well, I am very thorough," Kate agreed without humour, causing Emma to smirk. "So you'd like to try a partnership with me?"

"I want to begin a _love _affair with you. But we can form a partnership too, if you like."

Turning onto her side, so that they were nose to nose once again, Kate looked into Emma's eyes. "Are you quite sure?"

"You're impossible," Emma muttered guilelessly.

"That's odd, because I'm pretty sure I read a book once, which reported that the act we just committed was a literal impossibility, but I'm now entirely sure that it was _very _possible." Kate laughed, then sighed and frowned. "I apologise for treating you so abysmally."

Emma kissed Kate's cheeks and forehead, then replied: "You were just frightened of losing control, of losing the comfortable life you led." But, suddenly, Emma began to worry for the future, and decided that Kate might drift away if she knew of a better existence. "Perhaps we should find a way for you to go back to that life, but keep our ties. Or... or find a way for me to accompany you to Ceylon."

Kate shook her head vigorously. "No. I refuse to return to my family. The only life I could have led with them would have been one of... restriction." She said the word with a tinge of bile and loathing. "And I am more comfortable with you than with myself alone." She tipped up Emma's chin and kissed her sweetly.

"Aren't you worried about the stories you've heard, like the Clements and their trials?" Emma asked, flopping over onto her back.

Kate ran her fingertips over the curves of Emma's body. "Well... there is no law or provable direction by God, that says I may not love you. It is only the opinion held by other people that formerly caused me to keep you at arm's reach. I'd be a fool if I let those opinions destroy my life. Because, Emma, I do not care for people; I care for you. You are the single most important person in my life, and no matter how much you infuriate me, I still crave your company. I need only you. And, to be frank, sod the rest of them."

"Oh, well, you're stuck with me then," Emma giggled. "Will you go see your mother? Or will you send word and await the consequences?"

Kate sat bolt upright, tapping at her temple. Stumbling off the bed, she poured some water into large china bowl and began dabbing at her neck with a cloth. "Get dressed."

Emma, having been knocked to the side, looked a little dazed. "What?" Squinting in the half-light, she pushed up onto her elbows and watched Kate step swiftly into her underskirt. "You're more fickle than the bloody English weather," she exclaimed.

Despite her sartorial disarray, Kate crawled back onto the bed, lay down over Emma's hips and planted a lazy yet seductive kiss on the side of her neck. "No, I'm still quite _impossibly_, feverishly and - I believe - whole-heartedly in love with you. I've just had a thought, that's all. If we are to be lovers, we shall have to find a role in this world, and I for one do not like unfinished business. Now sit up and lace me; we've a murderer to catch and a young man's life to save."


	13. Bringing Matters to A Close

Full Mobi (Kindle) and ePub (iPhone) e-book formats of this story can be found on my profile. :)

This is the final part of the story. Thank you for reading. Claire x

* * *

"I'd like to thank you all for gathering here this evening." With a keen clap of her hands, Kate greeted the higgledy-piggledy group that was sitting on a semblance of variegated and hurriedly-assembled chairs. "As you may be aware, Miss Emma Scribbins and I have been attempting to prove the innocence of Alfred Snell, so far with little success." Emma gave a small timid wave and the audience muttered to each other restlessly. "_However_, we now have a suspect and for those unfamiliar with Mr Frederick Massey, please take a long look at the sketch that is currently being passed around the room. So, where was I?" She paused and looked around at the motley crew, and then caught Emma's eye. Emma waved a piece of paper in the air. "Ah, yes, I'd like to begin by allocating assignments. Firstly, come morning, we shall require someone to visit the bakery, speak to Mr Jones and ascertain exactly when Massey is due to make his next delivery."

"Put me down, my dear," Doctor St. John offered. "I'm fond of an early constitutional."

Kate nodded. "Very much appreciated. Now, once the good doctor has found us out a time and place to be, we need two or three of you to act as 'gossipers'." A few hands shot up, including Matilda's. Kate smirked. "Perfect. I'll have Emma guide you through the topic for discussion afterwards. Lastly, we require volunteers to visit the cottage hospital and keep a close eye on Mr Brookes; should he pull though, we must be informed immediately as he may hold knowledge pertinent to the case." Kate selected suitable candidates from the group and Emma noted down their names. "Now, remember that this man, if he is the guilty party, he may be dangerous. So please, please be aware. Be cautious." Kate took a deep breath, looking down at her notes momentarily. She felt a strange sort of positivity grow in her chest and beamed with internal pride. Finally, it would seem, she had found a cause that excited her. She had found her place.

* * *

The streets were empty bar one lone person. Keeping to the shadows, back to the wall, the figure slipped its way along the cold, moonlit alley. Were it not for the light scuff of boots against brick, the movement would be almost inaudible. Slowly, with a push, the gate inched open.

* * *

"What was _that_?" Emma spluttered through a sip of ginger ale, her propped up feet falling to the floor with a thunk as she looked frantically around the room.

"The wind," Kate replied cuttingly. "Are you going to have a mild aneurysm every time you hear a noise louder than the sneeze of a mouse?" she asked dryly as she nestled back into the armchair.

"No," Emma exclaimed with mock affront and a sly smile. Setting down her bottle, she shuffled to the edge of her seat. "I'm going to... well, go outside."

"Yes, yes. Off you go," said Kate absently, appearing to stare at the fire. She was, in fact, observing Emma using the reflection of the mirror atop the low mantelpiece. Gazing lazily, she watched as Emma rose and enshrouded herself in a shawl. Kate couldn't help but grin. Closing her eyes and biting the end of her thumb she allowed herself, for a brief moment, to feel elated. "Emma?" she called and sat up primly. There was no response. Kate found that she was quite alone. "Oh well, never mind."

Easing open the back door, Emma crept out, her intention not actually for the privy, but instead for a little night surveillance. Since early that morning she and Kate had taken residence in the vacated Brookes house. Despite the time alone, it had not been a comfortable day. They had both been on edge. At any moment a murderer was due at their door.

The glow that radiated from the light in Emma's hand proved insufficient. Almost immediately, her foot caught on a tin bucket brim full with rain water. With a girlish yelp, she stumbled and dropped the lamp; it cracked and spat small pools of flaming oil across the cobbled stones. She took a moment to lean back and take in the sight of the stars, the barest spit of rain making her eyelashes flutter.

She was so distracted by the sight of the clear night sky that she completely failed to notice the tall figure stepping up behind her.

* * *

Impatiently, Kate rapped her fingertips rhythmically on the chair's wooden arm, looking around for the local newspaper. Pouting at its absence, she instead reached out to jab the fire with the poker a few times. Her ears pricked up when she heard the sound of a creaking floorboard, but upon hearing a gust of wind whistle through the letterbox, she dismissed it. A few seconds later and the noise came again. Slightly more wary, she called behind her: "If you're seeking to frighten me by jumping out, I won't scream like I did earlier."

* * *

"You hit me!" Sullivan bemoaned, clutching his cheek.

"You startled me!" Emma clenched her teeth and looked apologetically at the inspector. "Sorry," she said, wrinkling her nose. "What brings you here?"

"I just needed to leave a message for you both," he said, rubbing his gloved hands together. "And also inform you that we've had a visit from Frederick Massey at the station."

Emma looked gleeful. "Then our plan worked!"

Sullivan looked bemused as they both bobbed down to pick up the shards of broken lamp. "Plan?"

"We spread a little rumour that Mr Brookes was going to go to the police tomorrow, and that he would be telling you who the real murderer was. We made sure Fred heard about it, expecting him to come to this house to further bribe Mr Brookes. I never expected him to go the whole hog and give himself up."

"Well he certainly did give himself up, but not for the murders, I'm afraid. However, he did have a very interesting story to tell."

* * *

"You know, I wasn't expecting you to be here, so this is a little unfortunate," Gerald Clement hissed into Kate's ear, adding a cluck of his tongue as he pulled the lace across her throat. "I was hoping that Brookes would be at home so I would put an end to his nasty rumours, but I'm now starting to wonder if they came from a different source. What do you think, Miss Ashurst?"

Kate strained against his chest as he tugged at the garrotte. Clearly, he wished her to listen because he had not yet begun to cut off her breathing, but she was restricted enough not to be able to speak or call out.

"If you hadn't got involved," he huffed through a sneer as Kate fought to grab behind her, "this would have been simple. No one else need have died." He pulled the lace a fraction tighter and Kate squealed quietly. "I don't do well with betrayal, but meddling I despise even more."

Bea stepped around in front of Kate. "Yes, he really does, I'm afraid."

Kate looked around her frantically, tears in her eyes, silently praying for Emma to walk back into the room.

"You see," Bea continued, "all dear little Millicent Brookes had to do was collect a watch we had passed to our little messenger donkey, Frederick Massey. It was Gerald, of course, who guided her suitor Alfred to our lovely pawnbroker about a favour in exchange for a dirty old ring. Should either of them ever have been accosted for handling stolen goods, our names wouldn't even have passed their lips. And so it was begun: our little business." She slapped her gloved hands together. "Lo and behold, Millie completed the collection successfully, but the latter part, which was to pass the watch to Mr Balcomb for him to sell on our behalf, she did not complete." Her lip curled and her hands clenched into fists. "And that wouldn't do." She smiled, somewhat relishing the thought.

Gerald snorted and Kate cringed as he added: "The little magpie kept it for herself."

"Of course - and this may tickle you - once Gerald retrieved the watch from her corpse," Bea continued with a smirk, "we had Massey take it to Mr Brookes and bribe him into saying he'd seen Alfred board the cart headed for the Grange. Isn't that wonderfully ironic? Casually tossing him the very same object that she had stolen from us and which henceforth brought her death?"

Despite the physical restraint, Kate still managed to raise a doubtful eyebrow.

"Well, I thought so." Bea sniffed with contempt. "Of course, the idiot took his time in coming forth to the police, but a few more threats conveyed via Massey - he's our lovely messenger donkey - finally did the trick. After all, no one really suspected my Gerald, did they?" she scoffed. "Not even you." She pressed her finger to her lips. "Though I suppose you did have a moment yesterday, when I visited you. That meeting was a little awkward to say the least; you see, I had no idea you'd seen me at the train station that day, so I had to reveal a little more than I had originally intended. Personally, I just wanted to inform you of Gerald leaving town so that it might not be mysterious, but, _no_, you had to get the bit between your teeth." She tilted her head to one side and looked pitifully at Kate. "It looks at though this will be your last case, _Detective _Ashurst. What a shame; you were doing so well," she uttered condescendingly. "But thank you for shifting all blame onto Massey. The whole town has been talking of it. Our little donkey has become a convenient scapegoat." In her hand, Bea held a white handkerchief embroidered with the initials F.M. Pulling out a small pair of scissors, she sliced a small nick on Kate's forearm and pressed the cloth to the wound to draw a little blood. Holding it aloft, she let it flutter to the floor. "Those terrible men, the flour boy and the butcher's assistant: weren't they an evil pair?" Her eyes flashed devilishly as she mimicked what the town's people might say.

Kate felt the increased restriction across her throat as Gerald began to tighten his grasp. She struggled for breath and kicked her heel against his ankles. "Cohorts in crime, apparently," Gerald laughed.

"So, no questions or comments?" Bea turned her ear to Kate jokingly. "Well, thank you for listening; you've been a delight to behold."

Nearby a door slammed and Gerald became momentarily distracted. Kate's eyelashes flickered and her limbs slackened suddenly. Gerald, unprepared for the change in weight, let her drop heavily to the floor. He looked at her slumped figure, eyeing her curiously and nudging at her limp arm with his boot. Narrowing his eyes, he prepared to stamp on the back of her hand, partly through rage, the rest as a test of her current state. Instead, he suddenly yelped in pain and Bea cried out his name.

With rage in her eyes, Emma stood with the poker by her side, panting angrily. Gerald, still breathing but unconscious lay across Kate's still body. Over by the fireplace, Sullivan had Bea restrained. Panicking, Emma threw down the poker with a clang and grabbed hold of Gerald by the foot to drag him off Kate. Falling to her knees, she pushed Kate onto her side and hesitantly detached the brooch from Kate's neck and unbuttoned her collar. "Are you hurt? Kate, are you hurt? Please?" Emma felt a hand squeeze her arm, and she watched as Kate's eyes blinked open. Emma's hands flew to her face. "Thank God," she said, buckling over.

"I chanced my luck and feigned a faint while his grip was loose." Kate rubbed at her throat, which was red and sore.

Emma nodded, overwhelmed with gratitude as she tidied Kate's hair out of her eyes. "You must feel terrible."

Kate smiled widely and, with Emma's help, got to her feet. "No, actually, I feel superb." Despite looking dishevelled, blood-stained and limping, she dusted herself down gladly and approached Bea, who was trying to worm her way out of Sullivan's grasp. "Here you may now have my comment, Mrs Clement. I believe that this shan't be our last case; indeed it is _merely _the first." Bea went to speak, but Kate silenced her with: "A verbose tongue is such an undignified quality in a woman. Save your words for the day when you need to beg the judge for your life."

* * *

"Well, goodnight, ladies," Sullivan doffed his hat, about to board the cart in which the Clements were contained. Pausing for a moment, he thought to give one more comment. "Good work," he said with a nod. To Kate and Emma it seemed like extremely high praise.

"Inspector, before you leave, I have just one question." Kate raised a finger. "How did you know where to find us?"

"Oh, yes, that reminds me, of course. Mrs... Peg -" he narrowed his eyes as he tried to recall "- something-or-other came to the station this afternoon and requested that I pass on the knowledge that Mr Brookes is on the road to recovery; she apparently couldn't pay you a visit herself since she had 'too much on, what with the laundry and everything'." He rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. "Had Mr Massey not appeared at our station doors, I would have informed you sooner."

Emma grinned widely. "That's brilliant news."

Sullivan smiled. "Oh, and Miss Scribbins," he said, looking a little coy, "I meant to ask you, regarding our -"

"If it's about our walking out together," Emma interjected quickly, "then I completely apologise because I, uh, _mistook _your suggestion. I am, in fact, promised to another, uh, and have been for quite some time." She beamed at him, wide-eyed, hopeful that he wouldn't feel too rejected.

"I see, well, perhaps Miss Ashu-"

"Also taken," Kate said abruptly.

"Then goodnight it is." The inspector stepped into the cart and took his seat next to the driver. Smirking he added a final remark. "Though I suspect this won't be the last time we meet."

Kate and Emma waved as they watched the horses walk on. Arm in arm, they stepped back inside the empty house and closed the door. Kate pursed her lips. "So, you are promised to another, are you?" she said, slinking her arms around Emma's waist.

"'Fraid so." Emma nodded. "My lover is attractive, charming and astute." Her eyes twinkled. "And you... you're also taken?" she asked with a wry smile.

"Oh, no, I lied. Completely unattached," Kate said mischievously.

First jabbing Kate in the side cheerfully, Emma then looked at her with distinct want in her eyes. Heatedly, she waltzed Kate backwards towards the stairs, where Kate found herself forced to sit as Emma began unbuttoning her tight waistcoat. "Oh!" Kate said suddenly, her mind full with the thoughts of chalk, flour and sugar. "Why did Millie have the white dust on her back if Fred didn't kill her?"

"Aha. Well, Fred Massey _was_ at the Grange that night; he was making a delivery. Gerald, having heard from Jesse Balcomb that the watch never reached its destination, beat up Fred, at first thinking _he'd_ taken the watch. Fred told Inspector Sullivan that there was flour _all over _Gerald's overcoat. So that's how it got onto Millie's back. Satisfied?"

"Absolutely. I don't like loose ends."

"No, I know, because you've very thorough, Miss Ashurst," Emma said, leaning in teasingly to nuzzle Kate's cheek with her nose.

"That I am, Miss Scribbins, that I am." With that, Kate grasped at the bodice of Emma's dress and pulled her down into an ardent kiss, pausing only to further add: "And don't you ever forget it... for as long as we both shall live."

Emma, her eyes bright with joy, nodded at the slightly mawkish gesture of commitment. "Yes, for as long as we both shall live."

Kate smiled sweetly at her companion. "Now get off me, please; these stairs are dirty. Besides, we've got Mrs Brookes and family to find."

"You are kidding, aren't you?" Emma frowned. "Haven't we done enough for today? It's dark."

"It is never too late -" Kate was stopped when Emma, grabbing the proverbial bull by the horns, took her hand and pulled her through to the sitting room. "What are you doing?"

"We're going to make a bed by the fire, and you're going to stop drivelling on about Mrs Brookes," Emma dictated.

"But -" A fingertip swiftly silenced her.

With a sense of finality to the matter, Emma lay a seductive kiss on Kate's lips and gently kicked the door to a close.


End file.
